The Third Holmes
by CouldbeDangerous221
Summary: Exploring the relationships between three brothers, readers are introducing the third Holmes brother, Vyncentte (pronounced like Vincent) Mathias Holmes. We start with the brother's childhood at the ancestral Holmes mansion and progress to the time when John comes into the Holmes's lives.
1. Ladders

On a hill, in a house that was all angles and no curves, young Vyncentte Holmes sat pensively staring out the window. He was listening to the loud, quarreling voices downstairs. Mummy and Papa were fighting again, he thought sadly, his pale blue eyes roving over the sprawling hill that laid below his spot on his bedroom's windowsill. Papa's bass voice reverberated up the stairs reaching the upper story room that Vyncentte claimed as his own. It was really an attic room, but with a little refurbishing after the Holmes parents had decided their youngest son had outgrown the nursery, the room was transformed into a comfortable bedroom.

Vyncentte imagined Mummy's voice; its sweet treble was probably still evident even in her distress. He hoped she was not in pain. Why couldn't Papa forget about Sylvia? Who was the mysterious woman anyway? Vyncentte didn't know. One day everything was fine. Then his older brother Sherlock had made a few careless remarks and every subject led to a dispute between Mummy and Papa. Mycroft, his eldest brother, told him not to worry about anything and to stay out of it, although Vyncentte could tell Mycroft was aggravated with Sherlock.

The man's voice raised a few more decibels and Vyncentte physically cringed. He wanted to get away from the voices. Wanted to escape the argument. Carefully, his small hands forced the window sash open and the cool autumn air floated in to greet him. Vyncentte crawled out onto the low angled gable that laid outside the window and slid the window shut behind him. He had snuck out of the house by this route many times, but today he still managed to scrape his exposed knees as he crept along the shingles. It was a casualty that always seemed to happen whenever Vyncentte chose to wear knickers instead of his trousers. But it was okay, he preferred knickers; they were more comfortable.

Vyncentte reached the first portion of the little makeshift ladder Sherlock had constructed for him. It was four or five little rungs that descended down to a second gable, and Vyncentte skillfully climbed down them and let himself fall to the second level of roofing tiles. Sherlock's bedroom window opened out to this level. Often Vyncentte would use their secret ladder system to sneak over to Sherlock's room, sometimes during the night, other times just when he was bored. Sherlock was always nice to him, always had time for him. Vyncentte was fortunate that Sherlock didn't possess the same abhorrence for him that he had for their eldest brother, Mycroft.

He peered into Sherlock's window and spotted that the candle Sherlock kept on his own windowsill was positioned on the left side. The message was clear. Sherlock was not in his room. It was their own secret way of communicating to each other. Whenever the candle was on the right side of the windowsill, Vyncentte knew Sherlock was in his room and his little brother was welcome to come in and keep him company. But, like  
today, Vyncentte knew he would find no one in the room if he chose to climb in through that window. No, today Sherlock was probably wandering around somewhere on the grounds.

Vyncentte decided to climb down the second portion of their ladder system and reached the yard. His shoes sunk into the moist ground on impact. He was grateful that the frost had not decided to come early this year. Otherwise, his legs would have been jarred by his landing. Frost was not his friend. Frost meant winter was around the corner, and that meant that Vyncentte could not spend his days outside, free from anything that was going on inside of the mansion.

Running through the thick grass, Vyncentte searched diligently for his favorite brother. He circled around the back of the house, racing towards the line of trees that would bring him to a nature recluse that the boys had often frequented throughout the years. The sound of gurgling water became more distinct as he neared the small creek that rippled through the small woodland. He spotted the thin profile of Sherlock, leaning up against a slender tree trunk contemplating the running water. A few twigs cracked under the pressure of Vyncentte's feet as he stepped closer to him.

Sherlock's head slowly swiveled towards him, "Hello, Vynce," he greeted the boy.

"Hey, Sher," Vyncentte skipped closer, coming up to his side. "What are you doing?"

"Nothing," Sherlock tossed one of the pebbles he had been holding in his hand into the clear water of the stream. "What are you doing out here?" His grey eyes surveyed the little boy, a slight glimmer of genuine affection evident in them.

"It's too loud in the house," Vyncentte confessed. His little heart hammered in his chest. Vyncentte did not want Sherlock to think he was too distressed about Mummy and Papa. Vyncentte didn't blame Sherlock for anything that was going on, but he didn't want Sherlock to misinterpret any of his comments for condemnation. Mycroft was very vocal on the fact that Sherlock should keep his nose out of other people's business, or else choose wisely on what he did share with others. On the other hand, Vyncentte thought Sherlock's gift of deduction was marvelous. He would ask his brother to tell him what he could figure out about random strangers. Whether they were at a park or hanging around the city, Sherlock could always seem to tell Vyncentte little trifles about the lives of the people they saw. Vyncentte considered it a good game.

"Sorry," Sherlock apologized automatically, allowing himself to pull Vynce into a quick, awkward half-hug. He was the only person Sherlock would allow physical contact with. Vynce didn't need his apology, yet he had enough sense to not say anything about it. Instead, he enjoyed the rare brotherly gesture Sherlock had initiated.

"Say, you should be more careful on the roof," Sherlock remarked off-handedly, nodding to Vyncentte's knees. His tone was objective and impersonal, but the words carried the connotation of concern. Vynce glanced down, once again noticing his scraped knee joints.

"I'm okay," Vyncentte assured him, kneeling down by the riverbed and picking through the stones himself. Most people liked the smooth water-worn rocks, but Vynce liked to find the jagged edged ones. He was extremely proud of a stone that looked like a triangle he had collected some while back that he now kept in a box in his room.

"Yeah, just be more careful," Sherlock repeated. He tossed another stone above Vynce's bent frame and watched it be washed away downstream. The two remained silent, enjoying each other's company. Vyncentte wondered what was bothering Sherlock, for he seemed to be in one of his temperamental bouts. Sherlock wondered if Vyncentte was truly alright. The little boy never liked to trouble anybody with anything. It was admirable in the older boy's eyes, wrong but admirable.

Their twin reflections were interrupted by the sounds of someone else approaching their location. The noises were different than those that Sherlock or Vyncentte would have made, it was as if the person who approached was not used to navigating their way around nature's obstacles. Vyncentte looked up from his scrutiny of the riverbed just in time to see Sherlock mouth the word, _Mycroft_. Sure enough, Sherlock was right. Through the branches of the trees they could see the slightly bulky profile of the eldest Holmes brother making its way towards them. Vyncentte pushed himself up onto his feet, and brushed off the dirt that he had picked up from his spot on the riverbed. Sherlock carelessly dropped the rest of the pebbles he had been holding and crossed his arms in indifference.

"What are you two doing outside of the house?" Mycroft demanded as he pushed the last branch out of the way, awkwardly ducking under it and stepping into the clearing. Brushing his auburn hair from his face, he straightened his sports coat and glanced around in disgust. He was back on holiday from the prefatory school he attended, yet he still wore the school uniform bearing the crest of St. Prufrock's. To Sherlock, he looked ridiculous. To Vyncentte, he looked intimidating.

"What's it matter to you?" Sherlock countered back, scowling at the older boy. Mycroft was seven years older than Sherlock, which made him thirteen years older than Vyncentte. He was estranged from both of the other Holmes boys.

Mycroft noticed the hostile demeanor of Sherlock and reflected that the boy was displaying the idiosyncrasy of a teenager. His contempt of the world could be observed in his grey eyes. Mycroft had noted long ago that they shared the same color pupils. It was also the color of their father's eyes, a fact he knew that Sherlock despised. It was one Mycroft was not sure about yet.

"The house is too loud," Vyncentte piped up trying to break the uncomfortable silence between the other two. "It was so loud we had to leave." He added, rather quietly this time, his own eyes- the color of their mother's—lowering in shyness. He always felt nervous around the eldest Holmes brother.

Mycroft turned his attention to his youngest brother, his gaze alighting on the raw, red skin of the boy's knees. On spotting it, his face twisted into an expression of displeasure. "I've told you two a hundred times to stay off the roof." He sighed, throwing an accusatory glare at the two of them.

"You're not our parent," Sherlock snapped back, coming to Vyncentte's defense. He leaned against the tree, stretching his back so he looked taller than he was.

"It's not safe… especially that ladder contraption you insist on using." Mycroft argued, thinking he was being logical enough that at least Sherlock should understand.

"We're sorry, Mycroft," Vyncentte apologized quickly.

"No, we're not." Sherlock remained defiant. He wanted to let Mycroft know that he hadn't won. Propelling himself from the trunk of the tree, Sherlock approached his little brother. His hand pressed into the small of the boy's back, pushing him forward and around Mycroft. "Leave us alone." Sherlock added as they brushed past Mycroft and continued through the foliage towards the Holmes estate house.

* * *

By nighttime the voices had died down, but Vyncentte still felt strange as he laid alone in his narrow bed. He felt cold, even with the extra blanket he had draped over himself. Most of all he felt alone. He felt the urge to seek out Sherlock. The fact that the ladder system was forbidden to be used—at least by Mycroft's standards—made it even more desirable to him. The freedom that the night air brought called to him.

So what if it was dark? Vynce had never hurt himself in all the times he had climbed over and down the gable. But he was scared of Mycroft. Even if he kept using the ladders in secret Mycroft was sure to find out. Mycroft _always_ found out.

He turned in his bed, away from the window, trying to forget about its presence. He'd have to make do without it tonight. Curled up in the tangle of sheets, Vyncentte tried to distract his mind and fall asleep. What did people do when they couldn't fall asleep? Vynce couldn't remember. All he could think about was how dark the room was and how he couldn't even see the outlines of the objects that were in the room.

Was this what blind people saw? Vyncentte wondered curiously. Or maybe the dead? The dark was what he imagined the inside of a coffin to be like: the dark of a tomb. Vyncentte remembered when Nana had died. He was only four at the time, but he remembered asking people where Nana had gone.

"To a better place," Mummy had said.

"She's in a box, buried beneath the ground," Sherlock had told him, a more reliable source in his mind. Ever since that conversation Vyncentte had become scared of death. Just the thought of being locked in a small space frightened him. Since then, darkness reminded him of six feet of soil being tossed onto a casket. In the darkness now, he felt the pressure of the dirt being exerted on his chest.

His chest tightened and he found it hard to breathe. The darkness enveloped him, surrounding him and not letting go. What was it like to be dead? What happened to a person's conscience state? Did that go black too? He couldn't imagine what it would be not to exist anymore. Panic gripped his heart and he wanted to yell out and scream. He wanted to do something that would bring someone else into the room with him, but he no longer had a voice.

Vynce tried shutting his eyes to drown out his surroundings, but that didn't make the slightest difference. His tiny heart throbbed, beating a strangled tattoo. He needed air. Needed to breathe. Not being able to stand it any longer, he scrambled out of the bed and rushed to the window. Throwing up the sash, he clambered out onto the gable.

There he was met with the brilliance of the moon, a welcome metamorphosis to the young boy. The burning orb was different from the dark canvas of the night sky, and the numerous stars twinkled overhead like little beacons of hope. Vynce took solace in their light. His pulse gradually declined, and he could feel himself returning to a relaxed state.

Vynce looked back into the dark window, refusing in his mind to re-enter the room. To re-enter would mean to return to solitude. Vynce never wanted to be alone. Here, the stars were his friends and the moon kept him company. He found repose in their presence, yet he still longed for something more.

He inched closer to the side of the gable, peering down over the edge towards Sherlock's room. Visible on the right side of the pane was the slight glimmer of a dancing flame. Sherlock had lit the candle, beckoning Vyncentte to come down if he pleased. Vynce marveled at the sight of it. Sherlock dared to keep their line of communication open even after their afternoon encounter with Mycroft. The small boy admired his brother's defiant bravery. No one could tell him no.

The sight of the flame kindled deep within Vyncentte the same rebel spirit. He was on the gable anyway… just a few rungs separated him from Sherlock's window. What was the harm? This was the moment that Vyncentte decided to break the rules for the first time in his life. Swinging his legs over the edge of the gable, his feet found the support of the first rung of Sherlock's makeshift ladder. But as he lowered himself down, his small hand brushed an unfamiliar entity of the ladder. Smooth wood laid beneath his palm, and Vynce discovered that the new addition was a railing made for extra support. It was meant to be something to shield a user from falling off the climbing contraption. An extra safety precaution.

Vynce was puzzled, yet his mind spun in pleasure at the new discovery. Perhaps Mycroft would let them use the ladders now that Sherlock had added the railings. He scrambled down the rest of the distance, tapping the glass pane of Sherlock's window to demand entry. The familiar profile of his brother could be seen through the darkness of the glass as he rose from the bed to open it.

"Thought you might have dug up enough courage to come down." Sherlock commented, helping Vynce into the room. "Careful for the candle," he warned, nodding towards the light. Sherlock's white t-shirt and pale skin seemed to glow eerily in the half-light, yet it didn't alarm Vynce in the slightest. He had all the confidence in the world for his elder brother; nothing could frighten him if he was with Sherlock.

"Thanks by the way," Vyncentte remembered the exaltation of finding the rails and vocalized his gratitude.

"Thanks for what?" Sherlock demanded, trying to avoid the cold night air that blew into the room through the open window.

"For building the rails." Vynce clarified.

"Building what rails?" Sherlock didn't understand what Vynce was talking about.

"The rails on the ladder," Now Vynce didn't understand why Sherlock wouldn't admit to building the rails. "Did you build one on the second level, too?" Vynce asked him. Sherlock ignored his brother's last question and blew out the candle before pulling himself through the window's opening and out onto the gable. In the darkness, aided by the starlight, Sherlock found what Vyncentte had been talking about. His nimble fingers traced over the wood. He deduced that it was from the lumber pile in the caretaker's toolshed.

"I didn't build this, Vyncentte," he called over his shoulder to Vynce, who was waiting at the window. "The nails are hammered in crookedly," he observed, more for his own sake. It was shoddy workmanship. Sherlock doubted if the rail was even weight-bearing. "I would have done a better job." He told Vynce, climbing back into the room. Picking up the book of matches, Sherlock struck one to re-light the candle. Vyncentte sat on the bed, bringing his knees into his small chest.

"If you didn't build it, who did?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head slowly, "Well, did you build it?" he asked the boy in mock seriousness. That won a laugh from his brother. "No?" Sherlock teased, approaching the bed and taking the covers in his hand. He motioned Vyncentte to lie down. "Get some sleep, Vynce, okay? It's been a long day." Sherlock covered his brother with the blankets, remaining awake himself. When he was sure the boy's eyes were at least closed, he went over to sit on his desk chair. His own insomnia wouldn't let him rest.

Sitting the chair, Sherlock reflected on the situation at hand. There were only three people who knew of the existence of the ladder system on the roof of the Holmes mansion. Sherlock had not lied to his brother. He had not built the railings that now flanked the rungs. Obviously Vyncentte had not built them either. Sherlock silently cursed that this was not the case. If it had not been Vyncentte and it had not been himself, there only remained one other possibility that could be feasible. The person who had built the rails was most likely their eldest brother, Mycroft Holmes.


	2. Grave Plots and Grave Thoughts

Vyncentte had not yet seen either of his brothers cry during his seven years of living. The fact that neither of them cried today was unable to surprise him in the slightest. Yet this still caused Vyncentte to feel uncomfortable letting his own tears fall from his eyes and roll down his cheeks. No adult present blamed him for his grief. All concurred that it was understandable, he was only a child. No, no one objected to his tears as he stood in between the two grave plots. On the left side, his father. On his right, his mother. Twin caskets lowered into the depths of the Earth.

Vynce looked up at Sherlock, who had turned his back on their father's grave and faced their mother. He was the one who had insisted on the separate tombstones. In Sherlock's opinion, if their mother could not have had peace in her life, she would have it in death. Mycroft had conceded to his wish without a fight. A first in the history of the elder two Holmes brothers.

Sherlock's face was devoid of any emotion. His stoic glare was focused straight ahead, unwavering and fearsome to those who did not know him. Vynce wished he had his brother's resolve as he embarrassingly tried to hide his tears by brushing them roughly away. His motions caught the attention of Sherlock, making the young man look down upon the boy.

The pale hand reached out, gently resting on Vyncentte's shoulder and giving a gentle squeeze of compassion. Yet the contact was only brief for one second later the pressure on Vyncentte's shoulder was gone, leaving Vyncentte with an emptier feeling than before. In his peripheral, Vyncentte saw Sherlock leave the graveside and walk away from the crowd.

Mycroft was facing the other grave contemplating his situation. He stared at the granite slab that bore his father's name. _Mathias Lachlan Holmes. _He had once been his hero. Someone he looked up to and admired. But not anymore, not since…Sylvia. The fact that his father had been having an affair for years had not quite sunken in. Even after Sherlock had dragged the information into open discussion. His mother had given up trying to depend on Mathias Holmes to be there for her. Instead, she had sought to find solace in her sons. Mycroft had become the 'man of the household' in her eyes.

Mycroft remembered the day Vyncentte was born. The third son, a surprise in everyone's life. A product of his mother believing that she could perhaps trust Mathias Holmes to love her again and be faithful. His loyalty did not even last the nine month pregnancy. The day she went into labor was during one of his episodes of absence from the Holmes mansion. It was left to Mycroft and Sherlock to get her to a hospital immediately.

When an attendant asked Mycroft if he'd wished to be in the birth-room, his reaction was obviously shock. He had turned the woman down, refusing to offer his presence. An hour later, he and Sherlock were granted with a cheerful announcement that they both had acquired a new brother. Sherlock had asked to be taken to their mother room and another nurse led him upstairs. The attendant had pulled Mycroft aside and led him to the corridor with the glass windows, where people could look in on the newborns.

"There, right in the second row," she pointed out one of the small children, "That one is your brother." She had told him. She had offered a shy smile before leaving him alone in the hallway.

Mycroft remembered how small and defenseless the newborn babies looked, yet the thirteen year old boy in him had started to feel uncomfortable in the wing. All his instincts told him to remain there until he knew the boy had been brought up to his mother's room. But he was slightly embarrassed, standing here alone, so he walked away to find someone who could tell him which room he could find the rest of his family. It was the only time he had pushed away the urge to protect his youngest brother.

He realized he couldn't escape it when the baby was brought into his mother's hospital room. She was lively and spirited. Not at all bothered that there father was not there. She wanted to name the baby after their father, out of spite, but Sherlock was against it.

"He'll be stuck with the name for the rest of his life," Sherlock had said. "Take some pity on him."

In the end, she had chosen 'Vyncentte', taking a common name and developing a unique way of spelling it. She had reserved 'Mathias' for the middle name instead. Sherlock was content enough to let her have her fun. Vyncentte Mathias Holmes was now part of the family.

Mycroft had refused her offer to let him hold onto baby Vyncentte. He was squeamish about children and didn't enjoy their cries and fussing. His mother had the grace to hide her disappointment and instead had lain the child back down in his hospital cradle. It was only after she had fallen asleep and Sherlock had wandered from the room that Mycroft dared to approach the cradle.

The small child had turned in his sleep, fidgeting as newborns do, and Mycroft had sat there in silence and watched for a moment. He had wondered what it would be like to have another brother. Sherlock was almost too much to handle and Mycroft had disliked the idea that Vyncentte might end up being at all like Sherlock. His worries had subsided though when he reached into the crib towards the sleeping baby. Vyncentte had awakened and in his dazed state had been able to wrap his tiny hand around Mycroft's finger. It was the firm clasp of the little hand that matched the grip Vyncentte now had around Mycroft's heart.

* * *

That night after the funeral, Mycroft sat in the parlor of Holmes mansion trying to distract himself with one of the many volumes that frequented his late father's library. It was useless of course, the subject matter was mundane, and deep down inside of himself he felt very odd. He closed the book, setting it down on a side table and rose from his armchair. His body had decided to wander and he roamed the halls of the house.

He remembered the afternoon when the three of them had to return to the mansion. Vyncentte had excused himself immediately, saying he wasn't hungry, and had rushed up to his room before anyone could protest. Sherlock had simply given Mycroft a dubious look and wandered up the staircase himself to escape his elder brother's odious presence. So Mycroft was left to his own solitude, being reminded that the house now seemed too large and disconcerting to his liking.

Now, he found himself at the foot of the staircase. He had unconsciously brought himself to this point. His brothers were up above, their presence felt more than known. In his own state of grief and solitude, he felt the unnecessary need to close the gap of distance. His foot made contact with the first wooden step and he climbed the flight of stairs upwards to the first landing. He sought out Sherlock's room, finding that the door was closed. Probably locked too, knowing Sherlock. Mycroft paused outside the entrance of his brother's room and found he could hear Sherlock pacing inside of the chamber. Mycroft knew Sherlock's insomnia would keep him up most of the night. He empathized with Sherlock, felt sorry about the situation obviously, yet he couldn't bring himself to knock on the door. No. Sherlock didn't want him. Their relationship was one of hostility and animosity. At least in Sherlock's eyes. So Mycroft would stay here: on the other side of the door.

A half hour later, Sherlock's rhythm of footsteps had not changed, and Mycroft felt satisfied that Sherlock had reached a state of slight security. Mycroft now felt that he could move onwards. He climbed up the rest of the stairs to Vyncentte's attic room. He couldn't hear any noise behind Vynce's door, but Mycroft knew the boy well enough to know he had not locked the door. Entering the room quietly, Mycroft saw that Vynce had fallen asleep on top of his bed fully dressed and emotionally exhausted.

He approached the bed and slipped off the boy's trainers before covering him with a blanket. Vynce's hair was slightly disheveled by being flatten down by the pressure of the pillows on his head. His young face had relaxed in sleep, but Mycroft knew the boy would remember all that had happened once he woke. Dreams and the repose they brought vanished once the eyes opened. Vynce would wake up and remember that his parents were dead.

Mycroft didn't know if he could do it. He was only twenty. No job, but prospects were good. What was he going to do though? Sherlock was on his way to being an adult and becoming independent. But Vynce was…seven? Mycroft would have to guide him and support him through eleven years of life. He readjusted Vynce's blankets uncomfortable with his position right now. Was he a big brother? Or a foster 'Papa'? What if he screwed up?

Vyncentte began to stir, restless and half-awake now.

"Myke…" he mumbled sleepily.

"What?"

"Is Sherlock right?"

"What about?"

"Do you really just get buried in a box when you die?"

Mycroft didn't know what to say. He didn't believe in God, he wasn't sure about 'heaven', and he didn't want to lie to Vynce.

"I don't know Vynce," he responded honestly. "But Sherlock's been wrong before."

"Has he?"

"He has," Mycroft assured him. "Get some more sleep, Vyncentte." He rose from the bed and walked in the door and looked behind him. Vynce had closed his eyes again, and Mycroft wished the boy could escape once again in his dreams.


	3. No Meat Vynce

_Hello guys, sorry for the wait on the update. The response to this fic is phenomenal! I need to find more time in the day to write :). Oh well! Hey if you like this fic, check out my other Sherlock fic "A League of Their Own". It's still in progress, too!_

_Thanks, and review if you like…_

_V. Jenkins _

The first thing Mycroft did when he had the chance was to hire a housekeeper and a cook. He hoped the presence of some older women could be beneficial in raising Vyncentte. Thus Anna and Eileen became part of the household. By now Mycroft had a steady job, a rather high position in a government office for a young man his age. Other people held shining prospects for Mycroft's future, and he could only hope they were right.

Even though he was successfully climbing the professional ladder, Mycroft still had to balance his responsibilities at home. That was far more difficult than he had ever imagined. Sherlock refused to do anything Mycroft asked him to do, and in a matter of fact, often did the opposite just to annoy him. Mycroft just chalked it up to the rebelliousness of his brother and simply felt grateful that Sherlock wasn't causing any trouble with his actions. No, Mycroft was more worried about Vyncentte. His youngest brother had become quiet and withdrawn from others. But the boy has always been quiet, perhaps that just what he was going to be. Mycroft was more concerned with the fact that Vyncentte had developed an aversion to food.

Mycroft was tired of seeing Vyncentte leave the dinner table without touching a morsel on the plate in front of him. It wasn't healthy to put off eating for days on end, and Mycroft didn't possess any ideas on how to fix the situation. Sherlock didn't see the point to his eldest brother's anxiety.

"He'll eat when he's hungry," was his only advice to Mycroft, grabbing his own plate of food and walking upstairs to eat in his room.

"Can I go to my room, too?" Vynce had asked.

"No, you'll stay down here," Mycroft took his own seat at the end of the table, picking up his fork. Another evening passed without Vyncentte eating anything. Mycroft expressed his dismay to Eileen in private as she came to collect the dishes afterwards.

"If I had kids, I wouldn't let them leave the table until they finished their meal." She picked up the kitchenware and bustled back into her kitchen. The next evening Mycroft tried to implement Eileen's principle.

"Vyncentte, you have to eat something," Mycroft had said in exasperation. "You haven't eaten anything all week." The boy still didn't make a move to consume the food in front of him. "You can't leave the table until you eat your dinner." Mycroft informed him. Vyncentte had spent the entire night at the table. At ten o'clock, Anna told Mycroft that Vynce had fallen asleep. Re-entering the dining room, Mycroft realized Anna was right. Vyncentte was fast asleep and his plate was untouched. He carried Vyncentte upstairs to the attic bedroom and laid him on his bed. _The boy was stubborn, _Mycroft reflected as he gently pulled off Vynce's trainers and covered him with a blanket. What was the problem? Why was Vynce doing this? It wasn't logical.

The next day before leaving for the office Mycroft paid a visit to Eileen in the kitchen. He told her about the events of the evening before. Eileen let out a small chuckle at Mycroft's description of what he had found as he entered the dining room.

"So the boy's a tenacious thing," she commented with her normal cheerfulness. "Well, we don't give up, yet. Let me work on him for a while. I'm sure I can get him to change," Eileen assured him, waving Mycroft on his way to work.

That evening Mycroft came home to good news. Eileen had gotten Vyncentte to eat an apple.

"Granted he ate most of it when he thought I wasn't looking," she added. Mycroft was happy anyway. When he told Sherlock, Sherlock merely shrugged.

"I told you he would eat when he was hungry," was all he would say.

Sherlock's lack of enthusiasm did not dampen Mycroft hope as he sat down for dinner. He had asked Sherlock to stay at the table tonight. With an eye-roll and a sigh, Sherlock conceded, taking a seat by Vyncentte and taking his usual meager portions of food on his plate. Vynce failed to do the same, sitting still in his own chair.

"Do you want anything?" Sherlock asked him in an undertone, spooning something on his own plate.

"No."

Mycroft heard the exchange. "Are you sure you don't want anything?" He probed.

"I'm not hungry." Vyncentte replied steadily. "Can I go to my room now?"

Mycroft allowed him to go, thinking it as a reward for this afternoon's success, yet this evening's dinner upset him. It was a step backwards, and Mycroft disliked things that worked against progress. When Eileen came to pick up the dishes that night all she simply had to see was the clean plate at Vyncentte's spot to know what had happened. Silently, she picked it up with the rest of the dishes and table scraps, leaving Sherlock and Mycroft at the table. Mycroft stopped his brother from leaving.

"Do you know if anything is wrong with Vyncentte?" he asked Sherlock. He was certain that if anything had been bothering Vyncentte, Sherlock would be the person the boy would tell.

"What makes you think anything is wrong with him?" Sherlock countered back, rising from his chair. "Leave him alone, he'll work it out."

"Not eating is harmful to himself," Mycroft wanted Sherlock to care, but he was reluctant to show his own concern as well. He kept his tone level and tried to sound objective.

Sherlock just gave him a peculiar look and said, "He eats. Just when he thinks nobody is watching. Your presence at the dinner table puts him off, I think. Let him alone." With that, he turned and strode away. Mycroft let him leave the room and pondered over this new bit of information. Before he retired to his bedroom for the evening, he paid another visit to Eileen and shared what Sherlock had told him.

"That's why he ate the apple with me," she supposed. "I was so busy around the kitchen, it seemed that I didn't have enough time to be really be concerned with him. He was just sitting there keeping me company, between that he ate the apple when I was busy with my pots."

"I think it's time he stopped coming to the dinner table then." Mycroft suggested, even though he disliked the idea of totally letting go of Vyncentte for good. Giving up the time around the dinner table meant Vyncentte now did not have to be in Mycroft's company unless he wanted to. He hoped that Vynce would still make time for him, or would he become like Sherlock and avoid him completely?

"I think it's time he took his meals in the kitchen…alone," Mycroft made his final decision. "Fix him a plate everyday—lunch and dinner—and let him eat in here."

"Very good, sir." Eileen nodded, drying one of her plates. She had no apprehensions to Mycroft's plan for she had rather liked the young Holmes's company during that afternoon. Vyncentte was a good boy and she was fond of him. Eileen believed she would set him right in no time.

* * *

In the very early morning, Vynce rolled out of bed and got dressed and ready for the day. He spent the morning with Sherlock in his brother's room. The elder Holmes was pouring over a chemistry book, studying one of the chapters intently. Vynce had to be content in the silence, and sat curiously observing the rest of his brother's reading collection. No fiction was present, it was all textbooks, scientific, or criminal volumes. Disappointing to Vynce, who loved a good story, but it fit Sherlock so completely he did not complain.

The noise of Sherlock flipping the pages was soothing, and Vynce let the hours roll by without making a sound himself. Sherlock liked to work without distraction, and Vynce knew it. Vynce found ways to entertain himself in a quiet manner, he was good at it and well-practiced.

Sherlock was the one to break the silence. "Eileen's calling for you." He stated, turning another page. Vynce perked up, and shifted his attention away from Sherlock's model of a skull. He couldn't hear anything.

"No, she's not." He shook his head, turning back to his own examination.

"Listen." Sherlock commanded. Vynce strained his hearing and faintly heard a female voice coming from one of the lower levels of the mansion.

"Vyn-centte!" came the faint call.

"Better go," Sherlock commented, waving the boy off. Vyncentte slipped out of the room and down the staircases to the kitchens.

Eileen was waiting for him, hands on her hips and a florid face. "There you are," she greeted him in her familiar Scottish humor. "I've cried myself hoarse calling you. Got you something to do." She beckoned him into the kitchens.

Entering, Vyncentte realized that the stool he had occupied yesterday afternoon was set up again at one of the counters. On the counter top was a mound of apples, a sheet of newsprint laid underneath. A knife was set out waiting for use, and Eileen picked it up herself.

"Sit down, Vynce, help me with these apples," Eileen handed him a carrot peeler. She didn't think he'd feel comfortable with a knife or even know how to use it. Her own hands took the fruit expertly and the blade sliced through the skin of the apple, peeling it back. "I'm baking pies today." She informed him, continuing her work. "Thought maybe you could help me."

Vynce took a piece of fruit himself, trying out the carrot peeler, and soon was peeling apples with the same speed as Eileen. Eileen let him alone to the peeling and started to make the dough. After having the skin off of a few apples, Vynce realized the fruit needed to be cut. He eyed the knife, Eileen had set down.

"Do you want me to chop these up?" Vynce asked her.

"I can do it after I'm done with the dough," Eileen answered, kneading the ingredients together, the white powder of flour evident on one of her cheeks. Together they managed to get the pies in the oven by lunchtime.

"Wonderful job, Vynce," Eileen complimented him. As a thank you, she fixed up a plate for his lunch. She ladled steamed vegetables onto the china and placed a grilled steak next to it. Taking a clean knife, Eileen sliced the meat. Vynce admired how the sharp blade sliced the sinews, cleaving the meat into clean cut pieces. She set the plate in front of him, turning away and busying herself elsewhere in the kitchen.

Vynce was grateful for her actions. She understood him, and it didn't matter to her the slightest that he preferred to eat in solitude. Vynce only wished Mycroft could understand how uncomfortable he was eating in front of him. Myke liked food too much for Vynce's liking. Vynce realized food was a necessity, he just wished it wasn't sometimes. Sherlock understood a bit, because he only ate what was necessary to survive.

Somewhere in his subconscious, Vynce feared that by partaking in a meal in his brothers' presence, the balance of their relationship would falter. So, he ate only when he knew he was alone. He couldn't help it; it was the only way to ease his anxiety about food.

Picking up his fork, Vynce polished off the vegetables between Eileen's infrequent wanderings over to him.

He left the meat alone, though.

Vynce couldn't eat something that beautiful.


	4. The First Deduction

_Hello, again. Another trip down memory lane for the Holmes brothers. Hopefully this chapter is a little more light-hearted (especially for the sake of my friend, Kay). Vynce's first deduction, proving he is indeed a Holmes. _

_ Enjoy and review if you like_

_ V. Jenkins_

The first deduction came on a day when they were in the city.

Days beforehand Mycroft had realized that Vynce was a growing boy. In fact, he was growing at far too fast a rate that when Mycroft was finally used to his youngest brother's height, he realized the boy had grown another inch or two more the next time Mycroft had cared to study him. And, as always, when growth is a factor in a situation so is the need for new clothes.

Mycroft had pulled Eileen aside one day to broach the subject with the woman he had begun to consider a surrogate grandmother for his brother.

"Vynce—needs some things," Mycroft had opened the conversation. "New clothes, perhaps a pair of shoes. Would you mind going into town with him tomorrow? Money's not an issue." It was true. A new promotion as his office came with a raise in his salary, and Mycroft was doing rather well in his profession.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes," Eileen wiped her hands on a kitchen towel as she spoke. "Tomorrow is my day off. I get one a week and I don't break my ritual." She refused him gently. Mycroft understood that she needed a break, sometime to be with herself and not have to worry about the affairs of the household.

Anna, the housekeeper, was the next person he talked to. She acted as she always had with him. Shy. Unresolved. She bit her pale lower lip in indecision after he asked his request.

Brushing aside a wisp of her blond hair, she asked quietly, "Don't you think he would enjoy the time with you?"

And with that remark, Mycroft was resolved to take Vyncentte to town himself.

* * *

Vyncentte was the one who had asked if Sherlock could come with them. Mycroft couldn't say 'no', so he had told Vynce that if he could persuade Sherlock to come he would be able to. Vynce had his other brother convinced in a heartbeat. 'How?'- Mycroft had no idea- for these were the days that he could not influence Sherlock do anything that wasn't his own original idea. The impact Vyncentte had on Sherlock was unfathomable to Mycroft, and the man was a little envious at that type of control. Yet, he allowed it, because no matter how much he tried to deny it, the boy had some sort of strange influence on him as well.

So, it was in the morning that the three brothers arrived in central London by cab to commence the day's task. Vyncentte remained slightly astounded as the sights surrounding him, because—out of the three—he was the one that had been isolated from the city the most. This trip probably was only one in a dozen that Vynce had been in central London. Mycroft went into the city daily for his work. Sherlock manage to flit off to the inner-city whenever the fancy struck him. What he did on those trips, no one knew.

For Vyncentte, what had struck him the most was the populace. It was far greater than any park or part of the outer city he had been exposed to with Sherlock on their own trips out. The sheer number of strangers overwhelmed him as the three Holmes brothers walked down the sidewalk.

"What can you figure out about that one?" Vynce asked Sherlock, discretely gesturing at a person walking by on the opposite side of the street. It was the game they played together wherever they went.

"Retired secretary." Sherlock answered readily, his pale grey eyes quickly roving over the woman. "Mother of two. Grandmother of six. She's on her way to market." He had spied the shopping bags tucked, almost hidden, under one of her arms.

"Fantastic," Vynce breathed. Mycroft hid a small half-smile of amusement from his brothers.

"What about them?" Vynce singled out a couple walking ahead of them.

"Married. Ten years or so." Sherlock deduced. "Except the marriage is on the rocks. She's having an affair… he's desperately trying to save it. Hence his constant and meaningless attentions to her which she is ignoring. She's much more interested in her mobile than his charms."

"Brilliant," Vynce went on to point out more people. Sherlock could never fail to give him some sort of information about their lives, whether it was an occupation, destination or something else.

Mycroft began to tire of it. He knew exactly where Sherlock was looking to find his information to make his deductions. The grocery bags. The locket and charm bracelet with the words 'Mother' and 'Grandmother' etched in them. The rings. The mobile device. Shoes and clothes and accessories. They all gave away the stories, secrets, and lives of other people. Mycroft was tired of hearing it all tumble from Sherlock's mouth effortlessly. He put a hand on Vynce's shoulder to restrain him from pointing out another victim for Sherlock's scrutiny.

"Why don't you try one for yourself Vynce," he suggested gently, hoping maybe this would break the cycle his brothers had fallen into. Sherlock eyed Mycroft, suspicious about what was his brother's aim. Mycroft brushed it off. He didn't think Vynce could do anything spectacular. Perhaps he had enough skill to guess an occupation as best. But it was a change. Mycroft wouldn't have to listen to Sherlock anymore.

Vyncentte conceded and his blue eyes latched onto a man who was approaching them from the opposite direction. His focus was hooked, the strain of attention evident on his face.

"Businessman." Vynce finally said. "On a business trip to London. Newly married. Less than a month." He paused for a brief second. "_American._" Vynce's tone was one of slight surprise, as if he didn't know why he was saying it.

Mycroft and Sherlock were both taken aback by his deduction. They had both reasoned the same conclusion Vynce had reasoned, all but one thing.

"How did you figure that out, Vynce?" Sherlock asked suddenly. "What were your steps?"

Vynce tried to think back on how he had come up with all his answers. "I—I don't know." He confessed. It was all a blur in his mind. He couldn't come up with the nice, organized steps that Sherlock had that explained his deductions.

"Are you sure that you don't know?" Mycroft inquired. He himself could follow the string of Vynce's reasoning. The man's clothes told of his profession. His luggage, he was traveling. Newly married: a female's hair ribbon was tied around the bag's handle. Pink with white polka dots, and a new shiny ring circled around the man's finger.

The man stepped of the curb and hailed a cab.

"Taxi! Taxi!" He was definitely American. Something along the lines of a man from the Bronx.

Vynce was right. But you can't see an accent.

"How did he know he was American?" Mycroft asked Sherlock.

"No idea," Sherlock shook his head. "His suit was tailored in London. Do you think it was the luggage?"

"No." Mycroft denied, "Look at the brand, you can buy it at Costco and multiple other stores around the area. It's not specifically American."

Sherlock glanced again at his youngest brother and a slight grin flitted across his face. It was the first time Mycroft had seen him smile in months. "But he was right though." Sherlock almost laughed. "He's right, and he's quick."

The same type of inane pride welled up in Mycroft's chest too. Vyncentte Holmes had just proven he had the intellectual skills of his brothers. In fact, he was stellar, he even was able to figure out something the older Holmes brothers couldn't on his own. All he needed was a little practice and polishing and he'd be able to understand the things that led him to his reasoning. But he was definitely a Holmes.


	5. Doors and Locks

When Sherlock turned seventeen Mycroft realized that he couldn't control his brother anymore. Sherlock was beyond control. What was worse was that Sherlock was heading down a bad path. The first thing Mycroft found were the cigarettes. Though he had had suspicions for the past few years, the discovery of the actual objects set in stone the fact that Sherlock had been smoking for a while.

The first time Mycroft found a needle in Sherlock's room was alarming. He tried to confront Sherlock about it, but the result was a door slammed in his face. From the other side of the door Mycroft could hear the definite 'click' of the lock being engaged. After that, the needles didn't disappear… they just became harder to find.

Sherlock would disappear from the house for days at a time. Mycroft only knew that Sherlock was in the city. He supposed Sherlock was there to get his drug supplies and to live without the bothersome presence of his older brother. Sherlock only came back if he ran out of money or places to stay. Sometimes it was out of guilt, and he was only returning to see Vyncentte. Some kind gesture or present offered as an apology from Sherlock would break the awkward ridge between the two. Sherlock never talked to Mycroft unless he had too.

The first police call came at night. Mycroft had to go into central London to retrieve Sherlock from a jail cell in New Scotland Yard. His brother was too intoxicated to realize what was even going on. He had learned from one of the division officers that Sherlock had been found in a section where there was heavy trade in cocaine. Mycroft had his own fears on why Sherlock had been there. The officer had said that because Sherlock was only drunk and the police did not find any illegal substances, he couldn't be detained or given a sentence. The young man was lucky, in his opinion. Mycroft had silently agreed in his head. Before he left, escorting Sherlock on his clumsy feet, Mycroft asked the name of the officer.

"Lestrade," he answered readily, "Greg Lestrade."

Mycroft had brought Sherlock out of the city and back to the house. The pressure of his brother's body was present as a semi-conscience Sherlock leaned against him. They walked up the stairs to Sherlock's bedroom, and Mycroft pushed him onto the bed. Before leaving, he made sure that Sherlock was lying on his side in case he vomited in his drunken stupor.

Vyncentte met Mycroft in the hallway as he was closing the door. "I saw the car pull in." he said. "Sherlock was with you."

Mycroft pushed Vyncentte away from the door. "Leave him be right now Vyncentte." He didn't want the boy to see Sherlock like this. Vynce looked up to Sherlock too much; he didn't want the boy's opinion to be tainted.

"But I want to say hi," Vynce tried to duck under his arm. "He's been gone for three weeks. He'll want to see me."

"No, Vynce," Mycroft's hands steered the boy away by his shoulders, somewhat roughly because Vyncentte was resisting. Finally, Vynce gave up. He glanced over his shoulder to the closed door, longing to talk to Sherlock, before allowing Mycroft to walk him away.

* * *

When Sherlock came to he didn't know where he was. The outlines of objects were blurred, and the thin line of sunlight that shone through the curtain pierced his eyes. Brutal pain accompanied the discomfort to the light. His head hammered; he felt like it was going to explode. Still it was better than the alternative. The feeling of his mind rushing off without being able to hang onto anything. His mind needed to be occupied and the tasks of day to day life did not satisfy that need.

He rolled off the bed, a wave of nausea hitting him hard as his knees hit the floor. The fog that had enveloped his mind due to the alcohol was wearing off, and all that was left was the pain of a hangover. Something deep within him craved more. He needed another high, something to appease him. Finding his coat on the floor, Sherlock's pale hands searched the pockets thoroughly. They were empty and Sherlock cursed in frustration. Mycroft probably had confiscated the pair of syringes Sherlock had stored in his jacket days ago.

Never mind, it didn't matter. Sherlock had taken the precaution of hiding some of his stash in his room months ago. He went to one of these hiding places now, finding a syringe of seven percent cocaine. The needle pierced his skin, slipping into the pale, blue vein of his scarred arm. Relief came with a press of the instrument as the liquid was injected into his system. He let out a gasp of air and breathed in deeply.

Just another day. Just another day in his pointless life.

But it felt good.

* * *

Three days later gave Mycroft another cause to worry. Ever since he had brought Sherlock home, Mycroft had been keeping a close eye on him. Staying home from work, Mycroft decided that he was able to take the time off. He knew that his presence was needed at the house more than the office. The days were spent checking in hourly to see if Sherlock was still in his room. Most of the time Mycroft was stuck outside of the room because his brother had locked it from the inside, but movement and sometimes a harsh word from Sherlock let Mycroft know that he was in there.

Right now he was taking a break from his vigilance in the study, trying to lose himself in a book. It wasn't working. He got distracted from the words and spent more time looking out the windows at the grounds instead of at its pages. How long could he keep Sherlock here? He didn't know. He feared the day that Sherlock was going to go back to the city. Back to his dealings and his bad habits. Perhaps he could manipulate him in some way. Twist something to make him stay.

What did Sherlock value that could convince him to stay at the Holmes mansion? The answer was simple. Vyncentte. Their youngest brother was already a reason why Sherlock sometimes returned to the house. But something held Mycroft back from using this angle for his advantage. He couldn't use one brother to control the other. He especially could not use Vyncentte as a device to get his own way. Mycroft wouldn't allow himself to do that. There were too many risks involved in taking that course of action. Mycroft's relationship with Vynce could take a tumble if the boy caught on.

As if on cue with his thoughts, Vyncentte entered the study without knocking or even bothering to excuse his entrance.

"Where's Sherlock?" Vynce asked, curiosity and anxiety mixed in his expression.

"I'd assume in his room." Mycroft closed the book that had been on his lap, giving his full attention to his youngest brother. Earlier that day, he had given Vynce permission to see Sherlock. Mycroft thought that Sherlock was cleaned up enough for Vyncentte to be able to see him and decided to reward both of his brothers by giving them the go ahead to visit with each other.

"I checked there. He's not." Vynce replied.

"Did you check the rest of the house?" Mycroft asked.

"I checked everywhere," Vyncentte informed him. "I saved this room for last because I knew you were in it."

Mycroft's brow furrowed. Hearing this displeased him. Reluctantly he rose from his armchair and walked past Vyncentte to enter the hallway. "Come along," he had muttered as he walked by Vynce. Silently, his brother fell in into step behind him and followed.

"Did you see him at all today?" Mycroft demanded as they climbed the staircase to an upper level of the house.

"Once. After breakfast." Vynce said. "I left Eileen in the kitchen and went up to see Sherlock afterwards."

"What was he doing?" Mycroft asked. They had reaching the landing where Sherlock's room was.

"I dunno," Vynce replied. "Nothing special at the time. Just sitting and talking with me, gave me this." He pulled out a deck of cards from his pocket. Their back were checked with a red and white pattern. Magician cards.

That was a bad sign, Mycroft thought staring at what his brother held in his hands. A very bad sign indeed. Sherlock had proceeded to give Vyncentte a gift, another one of his trivial peace offerings. Sherlock usually always left the Holmes estate afterwards, thinking it was enough of a parting gift for Vyncentte to allow his favorite brother to leave again. Mycroft rapped at the wooden door to Sherlock's room.

No answer came from inside.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft called, knocking louder this time. Vyncentte remained by his side, waiting to see what was about to unfold. Mycroft tried the door finding it unlocked but jammed from the inside. Something was obstructing the door handle from turning.

Mycroft knew he wasn't a very strong man, but he thrust his shoulder into the door panel, hitting it with all the momentum he could muster. It gave just a little. He tried it again with more success. The door flung open as his shoulder made contact with wood, and Mycroft stumbled over the chair that had been used as the instrument of obstruction. He regained his balance as Vyncentte pulled on the sleeve of his coat to steady him.

A slight draft moved across the room from the open window. The facts spoke for themselves.

The room was empty.

Sherlock's coat was gone.

Two empty syringes laid on the bed.

* * *

The next few weeks kept Mycroft quite busy. He was searching diligently for Sherlock, making regular trips to London. He had called that Lestrade fellow at the Yard and had expressed his concerns and asked the man for any assistance he could offer. By this time, Mycroft was convinced Sherlock was on a ruinous path, which he could not escape by himself. He needed aid… help. Mycroft was offering to give it. He just wished that Sherlock was willing to take it.

Mycroft took precautions too. He barred the window to Sherlock's room, even ripping down the ladder system the boys had used growing up to get to the grounds of the estate. Regretfully he took down the rails he had labored to build years ago. It felt wrong for by that action he thought he was punishing Vyncentte in the process of saving Sherlock. Yet it was a necessary precaution, so it had to be done.

He'd flipped around the door handle of Sherlock's room. The lock was now on the outside. Sherlock couldn't lock anyone out. Nobody would be stuck on the other side of the door without being allow to come in. Mycroft refused to acknowledge in his mind that he could now lock Sherlock in his room. He didn't want it to come to that.

Vyncentte watched these preparations in silence, not fully understanding what was going on inside of Mycroft's mind. Now he was eleven and understood enough that something was wrong. He knew enough that something was influencing Sherlock to act different then Vyncentte knew him to be. Sherlock barely stayed home long enough for a proper chat anymore. Vynce missed him terribly. Some days he wondered what it would be like to get out of the house himself. Must be better out there…out in the city.

Mycroft was staying out later each day as well. One night he just decided to stay in London instead of going home. Vyncentte was left behind at home with Eileen and Anna. The youngest Holmes became lonely and stalked the hallways alone, awaiting the return of his brothers eagerly. It came in a matter of days.

The lead came from Lestrade. He'd had telephoned Mycroft at the office one evening to tell him of a newly discovered district where cocaine trade was heavy. His division was making plans for a drug bust and from their scouting sessions there was a man living in the area that fit the appearance of Sherlock. A low conversation ensued, and Mycroft finally convinced the young officer to accompany him to the area that night.

"Giving him time for possession and use of cocaine won't change anything," Mycroft argued, "He needs rehabilitation. There'll be a reward for you."

"I'm not a dirty cop, Mr. Holmes," Lestrade had answered. "I don't want any money or-"

"That's not what I was referring to." Mycroft stopped him before he could go any further. "When my brother's mind is clean, his perception and skills will be to your advantage. I'll try to steer him in your direction."

Lestrade wasn't crazy about the idea. "I don't think he can help us much, sir."

Mycroft settled with offering him a position in a different division. His contacts were able to get Gregory Lestrade a place in the homicide division; he would be able to head a team of his own. Lestrade accepted half-heartedly and Mycroft sent a car around to bring him to the office.

* * *

It wasn't unusual for Vyncentte to stay awake all night. Like Sherlock, he possessed a certain degree of insomnia which kept him awake whenever he felt anxious or worried about something. Tonight was one of those nights. Mycroft had not returned from the office again that evening. Eileen had finally sent the boy to bed at eleven, telling him boys his age need a good night's rest.

"No buts, and no excuses!" She had said firmly sending him upstairs and making sure he went into his room. Vyncentte wasn't alone in his worries. There was a strange feeling burrowing in the depths of her heart. Eileen called her husband and told him she was not coming back to the house tonight, she was needed at the Holmes mansion. He understood. He always did.

Settling herself in an armchair in the front parlor, Eileen poured a cup of tea from the pot she had brewed before leaving the kitchens. She had sent Anna home, allowing the young woman to go to her flat. Eileen acted as sentinel, not knowing if Mr. Holmes was going to come back during the night. She would be there for Vyncentte if anything was needed. She always was.

Upstairs, Vyncentte was as much on watch as Eileen was. Immediately upon entering the room he had ignored the bed all together and had stationed himself at the window. The flood lights were off, but the two lamps that framed the entrance way to the long drive were on. They formed two pinpricks of light in the distance, glowing with a soft intensity. Nothing was happening on the grounds.

Vyncentte glanced at his alarm clock. The digits glowed pale green in the darkness of the room and he noted the time was 2:38 am. Early morning and he had not yet seen Mycroft's car pull into the drive way. He knew he hadn't missed it. It was hard to miss one of Mycroft's vehicles. They were all large and black, with tinted windows and driven by hired men in suits. Vynce disliked them and never wanted to ride in them unless he had to. Usually he managed to avoid them by riding his bike to all the locations he could. Vynce only rode in them if he was going to the city. Which wasn't often. And it was always with Mycroft. Which made it somewhat uncomfortable. The drivers were always intimidated by his brother's presence and didn't talk. The silence that ensued forced Vyncentte to be quiet himself. He didn't feel that he could talk to Mycroft with a complete stranger listening.

Vynce pushed Mycroft's cars from his thoughts and busied himself with counting the stars. He stopped at 624 when he saw a pair of headlights turn into the long paved driveway that led up to the house. His spirits were automatically lifted. Mycroft was home.

Two doors opened. The passenger door and one of the back doors. Two men got out and the man who was sitting in the front helped the other man get someone from the back seat. Vynce recognized the profiles of his brothers, but he couldn't place the third man. Whoever he was, he helped Mycroft get Sherlock into the house. Vynce noticed that Sherlock was incapable of supporting himself, and his heart beat increased at the sight.

The boy jumped to his feet, automatically turning to the door and then froze in mid-turn. He remembered the first night Mycroft brought Sherlock home. His eldest brother's actions outside of the door of Sherlock's room. The rough pressure of Mycroft's hand on his shoulder, pushing him away. Vynce took a hesitant step towards the door and faltered.

He felt paralyzed.

He didn't know what to do.

Slowly, he looked to the untouched bed. Then the door. Back to the bed. He didn't move from his position and opted instead to crouch down and sit on the floor. He faced the door.

Waiting for morning.

* * *

Mycroft had stationed himself outside of Sherlock's room. Lestrade and he had managed to get his brother into the room and onto the bed. Now he sat alone in an armchair he had placed in the hallway. He sat facing the door, eyes closed, ears listening. The tip of his nose brushed against his folded hands trying to compose himself. Sherlock had woken up an hour ago. Obviously unhappy to find himself at the Holmes estate from the muffled shouts and curses coming from the thick door.

Mycroft was despising him at the moment, trying to block out his brother's voice. Much to his disappointment he had used the lock on his side of the door. He didn't know what that made him. How low was it to lock your brother in his bedroom? How bad did that make him? How evil? Was he a horrible brother? Mycroft opened his eyes to gaze at the bronze door handle inches from his reach. Its metal glimmered in the lowlight, torturing him. Sherlock had used it to keep him out. Mycroft was using it to keep him in. To keep him in the room. To keep him in the house. To keep him in his life.

Sherlock needed another fix. Earlier Mycroft had scoured the room finding all of Sherlock's hiding places and disposing of what he had found. Sherlock found that out in his own manner. Now he was hurling verbal abuse through the door at his eldest brother. Mycroft couldn't block it out. He was now a selfish bastard, an atrocious waste of space, a fat careless cold-hearted git, and an endless litany of synonymous phrases.

The desire for the drug was growing. Sherlock's insults turning into pleading. He was trying to bargain now. Softer words. Angry words. All kinds of phrases and the like. He even tried using manners. A fist hammered on the wood.

"I know you're out there Mycroft! I'm not stupid!" Another blow on the wood.

Mycroft carefully inhaled a ragged breath. _I'm helping, _he told himself, _I'm helping him stop. He needs to stop._ Something warm trickled down his cheek. Almost shocked, Mycroft wiped it away. It was a tear. Humans were funny, strange creatures. There was so much meaning behind the act of water welling up in the eye to formulate a drop that would course down a cheek. Another drop fell from his pale grey eyes. This time he let it roll off his chin. He sat there letting himself silently cry. It was years of pent up anxiety of having to be not only the brother but the parent as well. To have to worry constantly about whether his brothers were healthy, happy, or on the right course in life. To want to see them succeed. To want to see them live fulfilling lives.

What got to him was the fact that he was hated because of it. Sherlock at least hated him. That for sure he knew. He didn't know about Vyncentte. He had a feeling that his youngest brother accepted him with a grudging tolerance. Vynce loved Sherlock for sure. But it wasn't the same with Mycroft. Why was it so difficult? Why did Sherlock have to lash out at him all the time?

A soft moment in his peripheral brought him out of his reverie. He turned to see Vyncentte peeking around the corner, and as he realized Mycroft had seen him, stepped out into plain sight. Mycroft wiped the tears away hurriedly. Sherlock was not being quiet. The door handle rattled, accompanied by an incessant rapping on the wood.

Vyncentte swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat when he saw the scene. He walked up to Mycroft's armchair and silently stood by him, laying a hand on his eldest brother's arm after a moment of hesitation. They stayed together like this for god knows how long. It was only when Mycroft had checked his watch that he moved from his seat. _Five o'clock in the morning_. He was feeling tired. He didn't know how Vynce felt.

Standing up, he wordlessly took Vynce's hand and led him upstairs. Even though Vynce thought he was a little too old to be treated like this, he let Mycroft do it. Somehow he knew his brother needed it right now.

Mycroft opened the door to the attic bedroom and turned on the light. Vynce slipped off the slippers he had worn to go downstairs and clambered into the bed. His brother pulled up the sheets, reached over and turned off the light. Vynce laid his head down on the pillow, watching Mycroft get ready to leave the room. Something compelled him to jump out bed just as Mycroft reached the doorway.

A pair of pale arms encircled Mycroft into a hug from behind. Vynce was hugging him like he hugged Sherlock. Mycroft managed to turn towards his brother without breaking the embrace, and let his own arms wrap around the boy in comfort. Vynce's cheek brushed against the metal watch chain that dipped from Mycroft's waistcoat pocket.

"Myke?" he asked, he voice muffled from his brother's chest.

"Mm?"

"Are you ever going to lock me in my room?" he joked, half-heartedly.

Mycroft smiled faintly. "No," he answered, "not in a million years."


	6. Tug of War

**_Hello all, here's chapter six in response to people wanting more of the Holmes brothers growing up. I'm trying to squeeze in more time in the timeline before we get to their present day situation at Baker Street. Enjoy and review if you like._**

**_V. Jenkins_**

In all the books Vyncentte had read and all the films he had seen, he had a confused interpretation of how brotherhood worked. He'd encounter a book where the main character was an only child who longed for a sibling to drive off the loneliness he felt in life. Another story depicted two brother who both longed to be only children because of the hate they possessed for each other. And then Vyncentte read the stories of large families with too many children. Children who formed alliances and grudges against others out of love or out of spite, that their parents could never keep up and establish peace in the family ranks.

Somehow the relationships always seemed off to Vyncentte. The youngest would hate the eldest. The eldest would dislike the youngest. And the middle siblings would have to mend the bitter fences that were created by trying to appease one or the other. Vyncentte came across no film or book that could help him in his own life.

It was a certain fact that he did not hate Mycroft. Nor did Mycroft hate him. As the youngest, Vyncentte Holmes often found himself in the precarious position given to the middle child; he was always sought out to bring peace over arguments.

As the true middle child, Sherlock surely disliked Mycroft. And he always sided with Vyncentte, which was unnecessary because they were no arguments to settle between the eldest and the youngest. But there was always an argument to settle between Sherlock and Mycroft.

The problem was that there was no parent in the household to overrule with a verdict, for Mycroft held in his hands the powers of both guardian and eldest child. So Vyncentte was often sought out when tempers rose and opinions conflicted.

Ever since the night he had found Mycroft alone in the hallway outside of Sherlock's door, Vyncentte had not been able to say 'no' to one of his brothers. His loyalty towards Sherlock and his empathy towards Mycroft clashed together in his mind. So balanced were they that Vyncentte could not for the life of him make a decision himself. He was a truly unbiased judge. So unbiased he could only stand there and listen having his own thoughts twist and blur in his mind. Sherlock could convince him that something that was black was really iridescent colors. Mycroft could show Vyncentte that something colored was truly greyscale.

Vyncentte could only stand there in the midst of an argument and stammer that he was utterly lost. Seriously confused. And Sherlock and Mycroft went on with their conflicts, their tempers and sharp words that stung. At the end of the day, Vyncentte often felt like a worn, battered piece of rope whose fibers were slowly weakening and unraveling from the two insurmountable tensions pulling on either side of him. It was enough to wear a person out, and Vynce felt horribly exhausted all the time. This feeling made him seek out and savor the things in life that brought him happiness and peace. Usually the times when his brothers could act as if they were on good terms with each other. He actively sought out these events and waited for their arrival.

On the morning of the day that he had circled on the calendar twice in red ink, Vyncentte readily got out of bed with refreshed spirits. Today offered the opportunity of a peaceful day, and Vynce felt as if the excitement he had been harboring for days could not be dampened in the slightest.

He started with his morning routine, picking out the clothes he would wear for the day, choosing a pair of jeans and a comfortable t-shirt. Vyncentte laid them out on his unmade bed. Mycroft was always trying to get him to consider changing his attire to something a little less casual. But all it took was a small half-smile and a slight shake of the head from Vynce before he would walk over to a different clothes rack in the store.

It was when Vyncentte was tying the laces to his trainers that the first hint of activity downstairs became evident to him. Voices could be heard and Vynce inferred that both Mycroft and Sherlock were in fact awake. Concern began to well up inside of him as his brothers' voices raised in volume. That almost never happened. Not with Mycroft and Sherlock. They were the type to keep their voices level and resort to stinging comebacks and thrusts at the other's weaknesses. But today's diabolical quarrel reminded Vyncentte of the ones he had had to listen to in his earliest years. This one was just as upsetting as any of the disagreements his parents had had in the far past.

Doors banged and the yelling stopped. Vynce wondered if whether or not it was wise to descend from his room into the lower parts of the house. He pushed aside his uneasiness, he didn't want to feel it. Not today. Slipping through the door into the hallway, Vynce approached the balcony railing and peered down to observe the empty halls below. He sighed. They were very empty. After descending down to the next level, Vynce knocked at Sherlock's bedroom door.

"Who?" It was a curt, direct question thrown at the door.

"Me." Vynce answered, a little annoyed at his brother's manner but still affable all the same.

"Come in." Sherlock granted him the permission to enter, and Vynce's hand twisted the bronze knob and let himself in.

"Hey," Vynce greeted him meekly.

"Hey." It was an automatic response, Sherlock wasn't paying much attention, and instead was absorbed in one of his chemical experiments he often ran. Vyncentte didn't sit down, standing awkwardly around the door waiting for an opportunity to win Sherlock's attention. It came when Sherlock looked up briefly at him. "Sorry if we woke you." He said.

"I was up already," Vynce told him.

"Mycroft won't hear of me moving out, but it's happening." Sherlock subtly shared with Vynce what the subject of today's conflict was.

"Mmhm," Vynce stuck to expressing himself without words. He didn't want to get too tangled up in it.

"I'm twenty. This is ridiculous, I should be off on my own." Sherlock shared his thoughts, adjusting one of the knobs on his microscope. Vyncentte turned over his brother's statement in his head and found he agreed whole heartedly. Sherlock was too old to be living in his childhood home under the 'protection' of his elder brother. No matter how many contacts Mycroft had due to his profession, the law could not give him any power over Sherlock. Not since the man had turned eighteen.

"Yeah, you're right." Vynce replied. The next few minutes convinced him that Sherlock was not in a sociable mood, interested more in his experiment than Vynce's presence. Vyncentte gave up talking to him and exited the room, pulling the door closed behind him.

He was disappointed in his reception. Especially today of all days.

* * *

When he reached the ground floor, he realized he wasn't so happy today after all. Vynce recognized the beginning of an emotional slump when he felt it. He wandered the hallways on this level of the house, realizing Mycroft had retreated into his study. The slight noises of movement could be heard from Vyncentte's position outside of the open doorway. He looked in to see that his brother had stationed himself in his armchair by the window. A melancholy air strained the area.

Mycroft sat with his head propped up by his hand, a folded newspaper resting on his knee. The man's gaze was focused outside the huge bay window. Vyncentte could not remember a time where he had walked into the study when Mycroft's attention was not diverted from the reading material often close at hand. Much to his regret, Vynce observed that Mycroft seemed to be bearing the weight of the world with a weighed down aura and tired eyes. His outward appearance mirrored what Vyncentte often felt inside of himself. Immensely exhausted.

Vynce left his post of observation and entered to the room. Silently, he took the most convenient path to the window. He sat on the windowsill, drawing one of his legs up to his chest. Mycroft hardly reacted to Vynce's actions. They've happen so many times before. Vyncentte stared out the window trying to follow his brother's gaze.

"Sherlock wants to move out." Mycroft finally spoke, reaching for his brandy glass.

"Mmhm," Vynce was wordless with him as well.

Mycroft inhaled slowly. "I don't think he's ready yet. To be on his own." Mycroft sipped from his glass. "He's relapsed before, I'm afraid he'll do it again when there's nobody to stop him." Vyncentte secretly agreed.

"Sherlock doesn't have a job, either." Mycroft added. "He would be unable to support himself financially." He caught himself, confessing everything he was feeling. But it was to Vyncentte, which somehow didn't make it so bad.

He looked up to find Vynce's blue eyes staring at him. Something was off in them.

"What do you think, Vynce, should I let him go?" Mycroft asked, sighing.

Vyncentte thought about what Mycroft had said. He remembered what Sherlock had told him. _Make a decision_, he told himself, _make a decision_. He couldn't.

"I don't know." Vynce's voice was soft. "I can't say." He got up from his seat leaving Mycroft alone and walking out of the study. Disappointed in the conversation and how preoccupied Mycroft was.

Mycroft let him leave and finished off his glass of brandy. Perhaps he should go into the office today. Get away from the house and give his brothers some time to themselves. He rose from the chair and wandered over to his desk taking a glance at the calendar that laid on its surface. Today's date was circled in blue denoted a special event. Mycroft read his own handwriting, letting in sink it. Letting an audible groan escape him, he cursed in frustration.

* * *

When Eileen walked into her kitchens that day she was met by the sight of Vyncentte already stationed at his spot on the middle island. He was deep in a book, his eyes darting quacking over the words, reading faster than any person Eileen knew. She bustled into the room, warmly squeezing Vyncentte's shoulder as she passed. He looked up.

"Hello, Eileen," he greeted her with a soft smile. With that look, Eileen knew the events of the morning already. _Curse his brothers_, she thought, grain of anger welling in her heart. It faded quickly.

She pulled out the parcel she had wrapped last night and placed it before the boy.

"Happy Birthday Vyncentte." She kissed him on the cheek. Vynce was thirteen today.


	7. Father's Day

Eileen was the one to encourage Vynce to branch out and make new friends. She knew all the families in the area, even though the Holmes mansion was far distanced from all surrounding neighbors, and she knew a family that had a boy around Vyncentte age. She took Vynce out for errands one day and stopped at the strange house on the way back.

"We're just going to stop here for a few moments, Vyncentte," she told him, unbuckling her seatbelt. "I have to pick up some clothes from Mrs. Collins that need to be altered. Anna tailors in her spare time and she's asked me to pick them up."

Vynce's fingers unlatched his own seatbelt and he got out of the car. Following Eileen up the front porch stairs, Vyncentte came face-to-face with a homely two story house, painted a pale blue with navy shutters. It looked so small in comparison to the Holmes' mansion. Eileen knocked on the worn door, and it was answered by a kind-faced woman in her mid to late thirties.

"Oh Mrs. Williams, it's so nice of you drop by," She greeted Eileen warmly. "And who is this?" She asked, turning her attention to Vyncentte.

"This is Vyncentte Holmes," Eileen introduced him, proudly placing her hand on one of his shoulders. He was getting tall now and almost superseded her own height. "He's the youngest one at the house Anna and I are employed at."

"It's so nice to meet you Vyncentte. I'm Mrs. Collins." She shook his hand. "Why don't you two come in for a cup of tea? I need to find those clothes for you, Mrs. Williams." Beckoning them inside, she led them to through the hall into a kitchen. Vyncentte thought it was so strange to hear Eileen called by her surname.

"Vyncentte, my son Charlie is in the living room if you like," Mrs. Collins offered. "He's about your age if you want to say 'hello'." Vynce stood awkwardly in the door way until Eileen waved him off.

"Go on, you." She dismissed him with a laugh and settled herself down at the table. "Mrs. Collins and I will just catch up."

Vynce couldn't ignore her order no matter how playful it was. Nervously, he wandered out of the room and into the one adjacent. This must have been the room Mrs. Collins was talking about. The telly's screen was alive with color and a boy was lounging on the couch holding in his hand a strange looking contraption that Vyncentte had never seen. Vynce stood and observed. There had to be some point to it. The boy's thumb was moving a knob and his other fingers were busy with some buttons. The figure on the screen seemed to move with every movement of a finger.

Finally, the other kid caught a glance of him. "Hey," he greeted him.

"Hey," Vynce echoed back. "What are you doing?" He asked.

The other boy looked at him incredulously. "What's it look like?"

"Dunno," Vynce confessed, feeling awkward.

"Playing a video game," the boy finally told him. "Haven't you played one before?"

"No." It was an honest answer.

"You're funny… what's your name?"

"Vyncentte Holmes," Vynce introduced himself.

"Charlie," the boy reciprocated. "Wanna go?" he offered him the device in his hands.

Vynce looked at it puzzled. "How does it work?"

* * *

The next few weeks marked a definite change in Vyncentte's behavior. He was up early nearly every day and he took a liking to riding his bicycle daily. Mycroft wondered at this difference.

"Where do you think he goes?" he asked Eileen one day. The cook just smiled in shook her head.

"So the boy likes exercise and fresh air," She replied. "What's so bad about that?"

Vyncentte was really going to Charlie's house every day now. Mrs. Collins happily let him in each morning with a smile, begged him to stay for lunch, and sent him off in the afternoon. Vyncentte like her very much, and thought she was probably what a mother was like.

Charlie was a great chum too. He introduced Vyncentte to his video game collection and told him the box like contraption was a PlayStation. Vynce introduced him to the woods and all his hiding places outside. The boys got along fine and Vynce began to feel more at home at the Collins's than at the mansion.

One day when they were in the kitchen, Mrs. Collins asked Vyncentte if his family had any plans for Father's day.

"Father's Day?" Vynce echoed, a bit bewildered by the phrase.

"You know," she laughed good-heartedly, handing him a plate with a sandwich on it. "Are you going to do anything special with your dad?"

Vyncentte stared at the food, wondering what to tell her. "I don't have a dad." He finally said, taking a bite. He ate without hesitation at the Collins house.

"Oh," Her pretty brown eyes widened in surprise. "I'm sorry, Vynce dear, I didn't know."

"Do you have a mum?" Charlie piped up at the table.

"Charles!" Mr. Collins reprimanded him from across the room. The man was busy reading the newspaper.

"That's fine." Vynce said, "I've got two brothers at home. That's all."

Mrs. Collins smiled at him, yet Vyncentte could sense the sorrow underneath. "Charlie's going fishing with Mr. Collins," She told him. Suddenly there was a spark in her eyes.

"George, you wouldn't mind if Vyncentte came with you two, would you?" She asked her husband.

"The boy practically lives here anyway," Mr. Collins responded with gruff affection. "I don't see why not."

"You could stay overnight," Mrs. Collins offered cheerfully. "Charlie has an extra bed upstairs and I have linens in the closet."

"You really should," Charlie jumped on the idea immediately. Having Vynce around was always fun for him. He really liked having a friend that felt more like a brother. He hoped Vynce's presence might make this year's annual fishing trip more interesting.

Vynce really wanted to say yes, yet he knew it was going to be an issue if he was out of the house for a night. What would his brothers do if they realized he had gone missing from his room or if he never returned from his bike ride? Vynce had been keeping the Collins family as his little secret. He hadn't even told Sherlock about them. The only person who would have the faintest idea of where he's been all these days was Eileen.

"Um… I—I'll have to see," Vynce offered them a thin smile. He hoped they couldn't see the worry in his eyes.

"Of course, dear." Mrs. Collins said, understanding these sorts of things. "You and Charlie run off now. I'll clean up lunch."

That afternoon Vyncentte showed Charlie the creek Sherlock used to bring him too. Back at the house Charlie introduced Vyncentte to the game 'Army Men'. Vynce got to the farthest level so far.

* * *

That evening, Mycroft was in the back of one of his cars coming home from the office. It had been a long day. There were some security issues that had needed his attention that had turned into an all-day affair, and it did not help that he was in the middle of preparations for next month's foreign transactions with Spain. His briefcase laid beside him. He was taking work home- again.

The sun was setting and in the distance Mycroft could see the profile of a biker. Tom was driving tonight and the car was slowly overtaking whoever was on the side of the road. As they passed, Mycroft looked out of the tinted window and recognized it was Vyncentte pedaling furiously towards the direction of the mansion. What in the world was the boy doing out so late at night? And so far away from the house? The daylight was slowly fading and the roads didn't have street lamps.

"Tom," Mycroft won the attention of the driver. "Could we potentially fit a bike in the trunk?"

Tom's eyes darted to the rearview mirror to glance at Mycroft. "Probably not, sir." He answered honestly.

Mycroft frowned. It felt wrong to leave Vynce alone to fend by himself. "Slow down." He ordered. Tom engaged the brake pedal slowing the car down. Mycroft rolled down the window just as the car pulled even to Vyncentte's bike. He realized his brother was wearing a backpack.

"Vyncentte!" he called out trying to get the boy's attention. "Vynce!"

Vynce head turned towards the direction of the car, "Myke," he breathed, surprised, letting his bike coast for second.

"What are you doing out so late?" Mycroft demanded. The evening air was cool and drifting through the window.

"Riding home," Vynce dodged the question.

"You're out really late," Mycroft tried again.

Vyncentte shifted up a gear on his bike, "I'll meet you at home," he responded, resuming pedaling with renewed energy. The car remained crawling at its slow pace beside Vyncentte. This caused Vynce to grit his teeth. "I'm fine, Mycroft. Drive ahead. I'll meet you at home."

Mycroft rolled the window up, wordlessly. "Drop behind." Mycroft commanded Tom. "Turn on your brights and light up the way with your headlights."

Vynce comprehended the car was not quickening its pace and instead tailed behind him the whole way home. It even pulled up behind him in the drive, lighting the exterior of the outside garage as he parked his bicycle. Mycroft was waiting for him, silently holding the door of the house open as he passed through.

"The study," were Mycroft's only words, a frown his expression. There were some questions he wanted answered. Vyncentte shied away from his brother's frame, knowing what his brother wanted, and walked into the hall. Vynce didn't want to talk, yet he walked the route to the dictated room obediently. Mycroft followed, briefcase heavy in his hand.

In the study, Mycroft sat down behind his desk, sinking into the comfort of his office chair. He leaned back in it. Vyncentte stood, uncomfortably waiting, before the large oak desk. Folding his hands, Mycroft began.

"You've been biking a lot, Vynce." He started. "Care to answer why?"

Vynce swallowed. "It's the mode of transportation I prefer."

"So you're going somewhere…during the day?" Mycroft deduced, once again eyeing the backpack with curiosity.

"I enjoy…biking." Vynce's voice faltered.

"Let me rephrase it then," Mycroft readjusted his position, leaning forward. "I know you've been going somewhere," he articulated. "Where have you been going these past couple of weeks, Vyncentte?" Alarms had been going off in Mycroft's mind. The last time one of his brothers kept their excursions a secret, he'd found Sherlock in an abandoned house high on cocaine.

"I've been going to –a—a house."

"You've been going to a house." Mycroft repeated. "Which house?"

"One in the neighborhood." Vyncentte said. "The Collins house."

"Why on earth would you be going to the Collins house?" Mycroft asked him.

Vynce remained silent. He didn't know how to explain it. Mycroft was not happy with his lack of response.

"Let me see the backpack, then." He sighed, standing up and extending his hand.

"It's—it's my…stuff." Vynce didn't make a move to hand it over.

"Then you shouldn't object to it." Mycroft assumed pointedly.

Vynce unslung the bag from his shoulder and gave it to his brother. Mycroft's pale hands unzipped the compartments pouring out the contents onto the desk's wooden surface. A few books, an apple, pencils, some spare money, and…a pair of compact disks. They were unfamiliar, and Mycroft picked them up.

"What are these?"

"Video games." Vynce answered.

"Yes. But whose?"

"Charlie Collins."

Mycroft fell back into his chair, the pieces of the puzzle falling together.

"Mycroft…" Vynce started, hesitant. "Would it be possible if I could—stay a night at the Collins'?"

"Who introduced you to these people?" He asked brushing aside the request. "I—I don't even know them. Who are they?"

"Eileen brought me to the house a few weeks ago." Vynce said.

"She just brings you to random places then?" Mycroft asked, concerned now about what else he might not know. "Doesn't consult anyone, does she?" He stood, leaving Vyncentte's things on the desk. "You can pick them up in the morning." Mycroft told him. "I've got to speak to Eileen."

"Myke," Vynce stopped him. "Can I, though?" he alluded to his previous request.

"What for?"

Vynce paused, his heart skipping a beat. "Father's Day. Charlie's dad wants to take us fishing."

"No." Mycroft made his decision swiftly, walking towards the door, turning back for only a second. "Because you've kept it a secret Vyncentte." Mycroft explained, something was twisting deep in the cavity of his chest. "We don't have secrets in this house. You should know that."

Mycroft left Vyncentte alone, and continued to walk down the hall. Vynce's eyes smarted with the pain of held back tears of frustration. Something snapped within him, compelling him to rush into the hall.

"You know at least they care about me!" He called after Mycroft, his voice rising in anger. Mycroft stopped in his tracks and turned towards him. It was a side of Vyncentte he had never seen before.

"That lot of strangers, as you say. They care about me." Vynce continued. "They're a real family! They have a mum and a dad and they want me around! They laugh and they smile and they don't hide away at a stupid office or up in their room all day." Vynce took a deep breath, trying to regain some air into the lungs which he felt were collapsing. "I wish they were my family because it sucks whatever we have here."

"Vynce-" Mycroft took a few steps towards him but Vynce just backed away.

"No! Listen. Just once listen!" Vyncentte cut him off. "I don't even know what we are! I hate not having parents! I hate not feeling normal and I hate being a Holmes!" Vynce turned on his heel ignoring Mycroft and running up the stairs, two at a time, to his room.

Mycroft was left alone to stare in awe at the place his brother was just standing.

* * *

Mycroft caught Eileen right before she was ready to leave for the night. She was busy around the kitchen placing things away and preparing stuff for the next morning. Her bags were packed and waiting by the door. Mycroft eyed them wearily. No, she wasn't going home, not yet. Not until he was done with her.

"Eileen," he called her by name to gain her attention. She turned seeing him in the doorway.

"Mr. Holmes," Eileen paused in her work. "Fancy seeing you in the kitchens, especially this late at night."

"Now is not the time to play games," Mycroft was irritated with her tone, especially after what he had found out earlier that night. "When were you planning on telling me what was going on with Vyncentte and the Collins family?"

Eileen frowned herself. "Shame on you Mycroft Holmes," her voice was low and her eyes were burning with disappointment.

"Shame on me?" Mycroft scoffed sarcastically.

Eileen took it in stride. "Shame on you for being upset about the situation. Vyncentte needs friends. Friends his own age. He's been cooped up in this house all his life. He's homeschooled, hardly leaves the grounds. The Collins house is good for him."

"Yet these Collinses," Mycroft's temper was rising, but he tried to keep his voice down. "These Collinses have now somehow convinced Vyncentte that his own family is quite inadequate."

"Perhaps you are." Eileen stated bluntly, folding her arms.

"I beg to differ," Mycroft snapped. He refused to believe that all the focus he had given to his brothers did not sum up to anything in Eileen's mind.

"Come now Mr. Holmes, you can't tell me that Vynce is very happy whenever he's here at home." Eileen wanted him to reflect upon what he was saying. "You can't possibly ignore that. So instead of complaining about how Vyncentte is looking somewhere else to feel comfortable, maybe start here with yourself. You could smile every once in a while, relax and be a warm-blooded person around your brothers. If you can't do it with Sherlock, by god do it with Vyncentte because he cares a great deal about you, Mycroft Holmes."

Silence followed this outburst. Mycroft uncomfortably shifted on his feet.

"It's not a crime to be a person, Mr. Holmes." Eileen finally said. "But if you can't do that, at least let Vyncentte keep seeing Charlie and his family. He deserves a lot more in life than what he's getting."

"Eileen," Mycroft's mind swam with her criticism, but he didn't quite know how to respond.

Eileen didn't give him a chance.

"Get out of my kitchen." She demanded forcefully. Eileen didn't care if she had overstepped any boundaries. Her allegiance was now to Vyncentte alone instead of the Holmes name. Until the boy could find his own voice she would be it. She hadn't know Vyncentte had already found the courage to speak out that night.

Mycroft felt like the dog that had been kicked out of the house.

* * *

Mycroft's conscience wouldn't allow him to do anything else that night. He'd spent many useless hours at his desk trying to focus on the plans for the Spanish transaction, but Vyncentte's and Eileen's words kept echoing in his head.

_They don't hide away at a stupid office…_

_Shame on you Mycroft Holmes…_

He massaged his aching temples and sat in the dim light of the study. In all the fights that he had had with Sherlock, Mycroft did not feel as horrible as he did now. He had thought he had been doing well, trying to balance family and business. It's just sometimes things got terribly busy at work that he had to sometimes bring the office back to the mansion. He'd never realized how isolated and sad Vynce had been feeling.

Maybe he was a little harsh and cold at times. Yet, that was him. That's how he survived day to day. The mounting responsibility of having to be a guardian and keeping his brothers safe and provided for often overruled any brotherly response he could have given.

_ You could smile every once in a while, relax and be a warm-blooded person around your brothers…_

Was it possible? Could a person really do that? Mycroft had had the nagging suspicion that whenever he saw a family, or even a parent for that matter, smiling it was a plastered expression on their face. The tension of familiar relationships caused a stress to him that he thought was natural. _Natural to him_, he thought bitterly. Was he just incapable of being someone his brothers could feel happy around?

Mycroft had thought that Vyncentte knew he cared about him. Vynce was the one Mycroft let on a loose leash all the time. Vynce was the one Mycroft let come into the study no matter what hour. Vynce was the one that had hugged Mycroft, god, years ago. Mycroft had allowed himself to be hugged.

_I hate being a Holmes…_

Those words could have been 'I hate you' and they would still carry the same stinging knifelike blow to Mycroft's heart.

What had he been doing wrong?

_Listen! Just once listen…_

Perhaps all these years Mycroft had been doing too much talking and lecturing. He had forgotten how to listen. He heard his brother's words tonight. God, he had listened to so many words that seemed to tip the world he'd known upside down.

This wasn't like the fights he'd had with Sherlock. The ones that were somehow mended by a period of silence and ignoring the other brother. Mycroft felt if he didn't fix what was wrong now it might never be fixed.

He didn't want that. Not with this brother. This one carried the potential of making Mycroft into a better person. Mycroft wanted to be better for Vyncentte. He left his papers, he left his briefcase, he left it all behind to go find his youngest brother and do something that was very difficult for Holmeses to do. Apologize.

It was a soft knock that came from Mycroft gently rapping on Vyncentte's bedroom door. Inside there was no reply. He tried again, lightly tapping on the wooden frame. Perhaps he had fallen asleep already? Mycroft tried the door handle, finding that it easily opened. Gratitude that Vyncentte had not acquired the same fondness for locks as Sherlock had filled his heart as he stepped into the room.

Vyncentte's sparse possessions filled the room. A medium sized bookcase stuffed tight with books. Vynce was an avid reader always content to sit down with another volume whenever he was bored. A chess set laid on a steamer trunk at the foot of his bed. A desk was tucked into the corner between the door and the window. Mycroft eyed the textbooks that laid on it. He'd brought them only a few weeks ago because Vyncentte had finished the other ones he had been studying from. These new ones were for college level studies, for like any other Holmes, Vyncentte was very advanced in everything he set his mind to. At thirteen, Vyncentte's intelligence could rival that of many full grown men in the world.

What really struck Mycroft was that Vyncentte's bed was empty, its top cover stripped from it. His brother was nowhere in the room. A breeze drifted in from the open window, the drapes fluttering in the soft wind. Thunder rumbled faintly in the distance outside of the house. Very concerned, Mycroft approached the window and looked out. Heat lightening flashed the sky, the hot summer day had cooled down by degrees and a storm was brewing.

_Please don't be out in the woods, _Mycroft wished fervently, _please please be by the house. _

The worst outcome that Mycroft could think of was that Vyncentte had left the house and had ran away. An indistinct silhouette was visible on the roof line outside as Mycroft craned his neck out of the window's opening.

"Vyncentte," Mycroft called out to it. "Vynce!" The silhouette moved but didn't respond.

What did he really want to say right now? _Vynce get off the roof. It's about to rain and you'll catch a cold. _Would it help right now? No. He held his tongue.

"Come inside, Vynce." He entreated, trying to be gracious. His brother made no move. Letting out a sigh, Mycroft made a spontaneous decision to climb out the window and onto the low angled gable. It'd been years since he had been on the roof. He remembered climbing out to build the rails to the boys' ladder system when Vyncentte was very little. Tonight, he was just as uncomfortable with the height of the roof as he had been that day. Yet, he pushed aside the feeling.

He advanced towards Vyncentte who was curled up with the blanket on the surface of the gable. His eyes were focused on the unsystematic flashes of light that flared in the sky. Mycroft lowered himself to sit down by Vyncentte.

"You know," Mycroft began after a long moment of silence. "They'd warned me about the teen years."

Vynce didn't respond to it.

"I'd thought I'd use Sherlock as the trial run and you'd turn out perfect." He added post-humorously.

"Mycroft,"

"Mmh?" Mycroft was happy just to get him to say something.

"Your jokes really suck." Vyncentte couldn't control his facial muscles and he grinned, "I mean they're really really terrible." He added through a shaky half-laugh.

Mycroft let out a low chuckle himself.

"Stick with serious," Vynce advised him. "It suits you better."

Mycroft relaxed, letting himself stretch out beside his brother. They were both on their backs, lying side by side.

"I'm sorry about all the things you've been feeling lately." Mycroft told him, tilting his head to look at Vyncentte. "I didn't know, didn't catch on."

"Those things I said," Vynce's voice was soft. "I didn't mean it. Well I didn't mean all of it."

"I think you did," Mycroft corrected him gently. "At least you did at the time. And that's fine." He added meaningfully. "I hope in the future we can be more communicative with each other."

"I suppose so," Vynce noticed the smallest changes in his brother's demeanor. Open. Concerned. His guard was down. All reserve was out the door. Vynce had never seen him like this, yet the change, however subtle, was agreeable. "We can talk openly?" he probed.

"Of course."

"Why can't I see the Collinses?"

Mycroft thought how to phrase his words before he said them. "I guess, you can see them Vyncentte." He spoke slowly. "I just don't want you to feel that Sherlock and I are insufficient as your family. I'm glad you feel that you've made a friend. I want to meet these people, Vyncentte. And no matter what you've thought before, Charlie Collins is very welcome here as well. Anytime, anywhere in the house or the grounds."

"Really?"

"Really." Mycroft repeated. "My turn for a question."

"Okay."

"What did you mean when you said you don't know what we are?"

"Well, we're really quite different from everyone else," Vynce tried to explain what he meant. "You. You're really strange. You're not like other people's brothers. You tell me whether I can something, when to go to bed, what to study. You're more like their dads. But you're not, you know? It's wrong somehow."

"I've been struggling to define our relationship for years," Mycroft confessed to Vyncentte. "And I guess I've come to the same conclusion that you have yourself. I really don't know if traditional relationships can define our family. It makes us unique in a sense, but I also see how it isolates us from the rest of the world."

They lapsed back into silence for another minute or so. Lightening forked across the dark sky again. Vyncentte finally spoke again. "I used to think Sherlock was my chum. We'd always been able to be respectable together. But ever since I've met Charlie, I realize Sherlock's not really so much, you know."

Mycroft listened to these words with regret. It had been evident within the past year that Sherlock was more withdrawn and cold to everyone, brushing off even Vyncentte.

"Can I stay over at Charlie's?" Vynce asked again.

"Yes." Mycroft conceded. "But any other day than Father's Day." He gave his only ultimatum.

"Why not Father's Day?" Vynce asked.

"Vynce, you've been at the Collins house almost every day for about the past month. You've been spending a lot of time there. Don't you think Charlie Collins would like a day alone with his own dad?"

Vynce thought about it, his sensitive nature understanding the meaning behind his brother's words. "Yeah, I suppose so."

"But you can stay over there soon," Mycroft assured him. "And if you want," he added hesitantly, "we can do something together that day, so it doesn't feel like you're waiting very long." He didn't know why he offered it, but the words came out all the same.

"Do something like what?" Vynce asked.

"I don't know," Mycroft said, "whatever you like. We can go into town, if you like."

"Sounds better than okay," Vyncentte accepted considerately. Thunder rumbled in the distance and a light spattering of rain began to fall. Droplets fell on Vynce's bare arms and sent shivers down his spine. Mycroft noticed the showering was starting to get heavy, his own three-piece suit keeping him drier than his brother.

"Time to get inside," Mycroft push himself up from the position he had been in. Vynce climbed to his feet. The two made their way back to the open window that would let them inside of the house. Mycroft kept on the side of the gable nearest the drop off. "Careful, the water's made the shingles slick."

Inside, Vyncentte laid the wet blanket out to dry in a corner of his room. Mycroft closed the window pane and latched it shut. Vynce climbed into bed, pulling the covers up himself. His brother was leaving the room, catching the light on his way.

The night had been a long one. But the ending had been worth it.


	8. The Holmes Taxi Service

_Hello you wonderful wonderful people! Here's a new chapter. A lot of people have been requesting more chapters of Vyncentte growing up so I'm trying to deliver. I am opening up this fic to requests. If you have an idea for a chapter or a one shot let me know as a review. Any event, characters, etc. I'll try my best to run with the ideas. I can go back in time if you like or work in your ideas to the future. Each requested segment will be labeled as such (Chapter Name/ Person requested) for this fic will still keep going on the already planned plotline, but I'd love to hear your ideas and work with them. _

_ Please read and review and thanks for your support!_

_ V. Jenkins_

Sherlock had won in the end. Weeks after his dispute with Mycroft, he moved into his own flat on Manette Street, not knowing that Mycroft had paid the landlord well to accept his brother's application. Mycroft and Vyncentte found themselves quite alone at the Holmes estate. After an arduous apology and many endorsements from Vyncentte in his favor, Mycroft was finally back in Eileen's good graces. Best of all was that Vynce and Mycroft's relationship was growing stronger by the day. With these changes, the Holmes estate that formerly used to resemble a warzone was now a peaceful haven for all its residents.

Mycroft had bought Vyncentte a mobile shortly after Sherlock moved out, hoping that maybe it would keep the connection between the two brothers going. Every day Vynce would text his brother and every couple days Vynce would receive a response. Sherlock had observed the change in Vynce's and Mycroft's association and, more out of jealousy than affection, tried to manipulate his own relationship with Vynce to box out their eldest brother. Vyncentte remained unmoved. He was still the liaison, but he didn't mind it much anymore.

He'd text Sherlock:

_Mycroft's not that bad. _

_ VH_

_ Time will show you different_

_ SH _

_ How's job hunting going?_

_ VH_

And with that jibe at Sherlock's situation of unemployment he'd get no response for three days.

"Don't let him bother you," Mycroft told Vynce over breakfast one morning behind his newspaper. "He's just bitter, he'll come around."

"It doesn't bother me," Vyncentte said, accepting a plate from Eileen. That fact that he ate now in other's company was another welcome change around the estate. Mealtimes were no longer a business of isolation for the Holmes brothers.

Mycroft gave him a bittersweet smile before changing the subject. "So what are your plans for today?" he asked.

"I don't know," Vyncentte answered him. "I'm out of books to read. I thought I might go to the library."

"In the city?"

"Well there's not any other one around here, is there?" Vynce teased before adding, "If you'd just leave me a fare, I'll take a cab."

Mycroft shook his head. "No need. I'll drop you off on the way to the office. How long do you think you'll stay?"

"I could easily stay the day," Vyncentte confessed. He loved the library, and felt the best thing was to find a nice pile of books and station himself on the upper level in one the chairs by the window to read. Time seemed to stop whenever he was in the building.

"Then I'll stop by on the way home for you," Mycroft decided. "Have you mobile on a setting that you can get calls." He warned him against turning the phone on completely silent.

"Okay," Vynce got the up and helped Eileen with the breakfast dishes before getting his stuff from his bedroom. He'd go downstairs and meet Mycroft by the car.

* * *

Vyncentte found out that Stan was driving that day upon walking out of the house to find the man waiting by a readied car. The exhaust sputtering from the car's tailpipe mingled with the morning fog that eerily rolled across the dewy grounds. Vynce shielded his hands from the clammy air, thrusting them inside of the front pocket of his gray hooded sweatshirt. His own breaths were crystallized puffs of air.

"Should have taken a coat," was Mycroft's only comment as he pulled the house door shut and came up from behind him. Donning his own great coat over his suit, briefcase in hand, Mycroft ducked into the interior of the car. Vynce climbed in after, glad to escape the coldness of the morning.

Vynce could tell they were approaching London as the miles drifted by. Mycroft's layers of masks started appearing. Coolly taking out some files, his big brother began to examine them with a stoic expression.

"What are those?" Vynce asked, curious.

"Just some business stuff," Mycroft muttered under his breath.

"Oh."

"Australia," was the only word that he would allow as explanation.

Vyncentte didn't mind the withdrawal of Mycroft's. He knew it was a show. A show for everyone else in the world. Right now Mycroft was performing for Stan, he was also preparing for everyone else he was going to meet during the day. Vynce wondered why Mycroft felt he had to be this one thing at home and someone completely different everywhere else. But it always worked in the end, so Vynce didn't bother with it much. He just counted himself lucky to know the man that Mycroft could be in private.

When they were minutes out, Mycroft put away the business papers. "I'll probably be around by five," he told Vyncentte, before adding, "Please be outside this time." He referenced other times that his younger brother was late.

"I will," Vynce nodded. The car was pulling up to the curb of the city sidewalk that led to the library. He slid out of the car, shouldering his knapsack and offering a half wave to the retreating car before starting off to the building. London milled about around him. _Today was going to be an awful fine day_, he thought to himself. It always was when he was allowed on his own.

* * *

The work day quickly became too long for Mycroft Holmes. Too many things were demanding his attention. Too many things were becoming priority. His assistant helped him the best she could, bustling in and out, answering phones and pushing off unimportant tasks. Her presence was becoming quite indispensable as he worked on files and met with the people who needed his service.

He couldn't help noticing how the hours were ticking by too fast as he checked his pocket watch between tasks. Far too fast indeed. It was 4:30 pm when his assistant walked back into his office.

"You have a meeting slotted for 4:45, Mr. Holmes," she reminded him and then adding with a smile, "Last of the day."

Mycroft checked his watch again refusing to believe it was that late in the afternoon already. "I can't do it," he told her laying the watch back down on the desk. "Reschedule it for tomorrow."

His assistant didn't budge. "I'm sorry Mr. Holmes, but that's not possible. It's classified as urgent and needs to be taken care of today at the latest."

Mycroft rubbed his right temple, conflicted of course. Vyncentte would be getting ready to leave the interior of the library and would be waiting for the car to come around. And Mycroft was still stuck at the office. By the time he got out of the meeting it'd be too late to make it in time.

The young woman noticed his hesitation. "Mr. Holmes," she spoke softly, "you seem rather preoccupied today. More so than necessary with the circumstances." She paused. "Can I help in any way?"

Mycroft made a spur of the moment decision. "Yes you can," he told her. It felt wrong to just send an impersonal car to Vynce with just Stan. "I need you to take the car and pick up my brother at the library. Stan, my driver, will know. Bring him back here. I don't know how late this meeting will go, so he can wait around here with you until I'm done." He rose from his chair picking up some files he knew he would need. His assistant glanced at him uncertainly. She never knew he had a brother; Mr. Holmes never talked of his personal life. "Are you able to?" he asked her as he observed she had not yet left the room.

"Of course," she nodded. "On my way, sir." They left together, parting ways in the hallway. Walking towards the closest exit, she drew her phone from her pocket and dialed a number. "Stan? Hello. Bring Mr. Holmes' car around front. Thank you."

* * *

Stan knew exactly where to pull up as the car slowed down and exited traffic. He stopped in front of a young teenage boy, shifted into park and gave Mycroft's assistant a nod. This must have been her employer's brother. She rolled down the tinted window and the boy quickly hid a surprised face and stopped his approach to the car.

"Oh it's okay," she called out. "Are you um-" she didn't know his name. "Well are you a Holmes?" she ended up asking.

"Yeah," he adjusted the bag on his back, "I'm Vyncentte." He introduced himself, still not making a move to the car.

"Your brother sent me over." She explained to him. Vyncentte bent over slightly peering into the open window, and recognized Stan. It was his brother's car. She smiled at his caution and opened the door. Sliding into the car, he took the seat next to her and buckled himself in.

"Who are you?" he finally asked as they set off.

"Your brother's assistant," she answered readily.

"I mean—what's your name?" Vynce tried again, politely inquiring who she was.

"—Anthea." She said it after a split second's pause. She used the name she used the most when asked her identity.

"That's not your real name." Vynce replied with a knowing smile. "That's okay, Anthea suits you."

_Smart kid, _Anthea thought to herself, _and sweet too_. She like him immediately.

"Where are we going exactly?" Vynce asked, recognizing the route that Stan was taking was the wrong way to get to the Holmes estate. He'd thought Mycroft had sent a car ahead so Vynce could go home without having to wait any longer at the library.

"To Mr. Holmes's office," Anthea told him. "I mean your brother." She added blushing. She didn't known really how to talk to Vyncentte. It was still surreal to her that Mycroft had a family outside of the office.

"Oh, he didn't have to do that," Vyncentte felt uncomfortable with the answer. "I would have been fine just going straight on home by myself."

Anthea felt rather confused about some facts. "Why does your brother have to pick you up? Why don't your parents?"

Vyncentte was all too used to the question. "We don't have mum or a dad." He responded. "They died a long time ago. Mycroft's responsible for us. Me, I mean. Sherlock's old enough to be on his own."

This news was shocking to Anthea. Mycroft Holmes not only had one brother, he had two. He was also responsible for these younger brothers. How much older was he then this kid, and what other secrets laid in the private life of Mr. Holmes? "Do you like it much? Living with your brother?"

"It's not bad," Vyncentte spoke vaguely. "I don't know, some people think it'd be awful fun I suppose. But Mycroft is probably more authoritarian than I'd imagine my parents would have been. Granted I probably wouldn't want any other living situation. Family is better than strangers."

Anthea nodded in agreement. "I suppose he's a real stickler." She laughed imagining her stern boss as a guardian.

Vynce shrugged off her comment. "In some ways. But I can get away with a lot of stuff Sherlock probably wouldn't have been able to." He didn't feel comfortable talking about himself, so he shifted the topic of the conversation. "What about you? Do you like your job?"

She gifted him with a rare warm smile. "I probably wouldn't want any other one," she answered with all the tact Vyncentte had answered her previous questions.

"What exactly does my brother do?" Vynce asked suddenly.

Anthea couldn't believe that Vyncentte did not know what his brother did for a living. But then Mr. Holmes kept his private life so clandestine from his professional life. He probably kept his professional life from interfering with his life at home. "He works for the government."

"I know that," Vynce gave her a half-smile. "But what does he do?"

"I'm probably not the one to answer that." Anthea warned him. If Mycroft had not told him it was not her place to say. They spent the rest of the car ride talking of trivial things. If Vyncentte went to school? Not in the traditional way, he'd said. What about his friends? He had had had one in the neighborhood, but he had moved away within the past year.

The more they talked the more Vyncentte realized he liked Anthea very much.

"I'm glad you're my brother's assistant," Vynce finally told her.

"I'm glad, too." Anthea smiled. "Because if I wasn't, I would have never met you."

* * *

Mycroft walked out of the conference room, his mind tired from all the exertion of solving the issues at hand. He found it irksome that nobody else in the office was capable of using their brains. They relied too much on him. He walked the glass hallway that led to his own office, passing his assistant's office on the way. He did a double take. She had already returned to the building with his brother. He walked back to the doorway and observed quietly from his place in the hall.

Anthea was sitting at her desk, busy at her computer. Sometimes she'd reference a paper file before going back and typing. Vyncentte was stationed at the edge of her table sitting in a chair. He was absorbed in a book. Probably one he had gotten earlier today at the library. Mycroft strained his eyes and found the title to be one of Dostoyevsky's classics. Occasionally, his assistant would glance up towards his brother and warmly smile before going back to her work.

They must have got along fine, then, he reflected, for now they were comfortably going about their own business in the small room. Each didn't seem to mind the other's presence, and Mycroft was glad of that.

* * *

Anthea glanced up once from her work to spy her boss standing in the doorway, his gaze fixed on the boy beside her. The shadow of a genuine smile flickered across Mr. Holmes' face for the briefest of moments, and she found herself hiding a smile as she looked back to her computer monitor.

_Well, well, well. Seems that you're not all prickles and thorns, Mr. Mycroft Holmes. _She thought to herself typing. People around the office called him the Iceman. They thought he was incapable of feeling any emotion whatsoever, had traded in his soul for his intelligence. To them nothing on Earth had any sentimental value to Mycroft Holmes. Yet, now Anthea was beginning to think differently.

Mr. Holmes wasn't a soulless man after all. He just carefully guarded his heart. He built walls around and around its exterior, locking everyone and everything out. The only thing Anthea had seen to penetrate these barriers was the boy who sat beside her. Vyncentte Holmes. The boy who could chisel away the ice from Mycroft Holmes' face and make it possible for the slightest smile to pass over it. Somehow she felt grateful that there was something in the world that could do that.

Calmly, she looked up again to the doorway. Mr. Holmes noticed her this time, letting the smile fade from his face, quickly putting back on his mask of indifference that he wore daily to the office. She understood, and so did he. No one else could know about this moment. Private life was private life, and business was business per usual. Anthea knew her place.

She reached over gently brushing one of her hands on Vynce's elbow to gain his attention. He looked up from the page a bit dazed to be pulled from whatever words he had been reading. Anthea tilted her head towards the doorway where his brother waited.

"Oh, hey," Vynce greeted the new arrival.

"Time to go," Mycroft's words didn't have the usual sting of command Anthea knew so well.

Vynce slipped his book back into his bag and rose from his chair. "Bye, Anthea. It was nice to meet you." He shook her hand cordially, and gifted his with one more smile.

"It was so nice to meet you too, Vyncentte." She meant every word, as she watched him walk over to Mr. Holmes and follow him down the glass hallway to the elevator that would bring them below.

Today had shown her a whole new world of possibilities.


	9. Flu Season

_Hello again! This chapter has been in the works for awhile and I hope all of you enjoy. I'm still taking requests for chapter materials if anyone has ideas, so don't be afraid to contact me if you do have any. I'm trying to make Vynce's childhood a little longer! Really trying! Also hope to get Sherlock back in the story soon too. _

_Anyway Read, Enjoy, and Review!_

_V. Jenkins_

London winters were never forgiving and seldom did one go by that Vynce escaped being sick. It was early December when he developed a cough, its deep hoarseness rattling his chest during attacks. Instinctively he wandered around the house in misery, trying to avoid others as much as possible. But others wouldn't allow him to wallow in his self-exile.

"Come to the kitchens, Vynce,' Eileen sighed, having put the kettle on to boil moments beforehand. "A good cuppa should fix you up." She had fixed him a large mug of tea, squeezing honey and lemon juice into the liquid in hopes of soothing his throat. Vynce drank it all… and kept right on coughing.

A few nights afterwards Vyncentte woke up in a night sweat, a frightful sensation attacking his stomach. Rolling out of bed, his bare feet hit the cold wooden floor as he stumbled from his room into the hall. He blindly rang his hand against the wall finding the nearest bathroom and closing himself inside.

Seconds later he was on his knees before the toilet bowl retching quietly to try and make as little noise as possible. He didn't want to wake up anybody. Yet his stomach was empty, resulting in mostly dry-heaves. He had refused to eat anything in the last couple of days due to his lack of appetite. But even though his stomach was empty his body still shook in spasmodic lurches interrupted by bitter fits of coughing.

Vynce was finally able to calm himself down, inhaling deeply to catch his breath. He sunk to the floor, curling up into a miserable ball and resting his flushed cheek against the cold stone. It felt so nice to his overheated body, but the world still spun around him making him dizzy. He lay there all alone, his tired body wishing he could fall asleep.

* * *

Mycroft had woken up hearing noises from the corridors of the house. It didn't take long for his tired brain to realize it was Vyncentte. He was the only other person in the house. It also wasn't hard to guess what may be the cause of this late-night excursion from his room. Vynce had looked frightfully pale that evening with dark circles under his eyes and a countenance that spoke that everything was not alright with him. Mycroft suspected that his cold was developing to its next stage.

He rose from the bed, pulling on a dressing gown and exiting his own bedroom. A sick boy shouldn't be alone.

* * *

"Vyncentte," the call from the other side of the door was gentle.

Vynce recognized his brother's voice. He was still lying on the tile floor, not able to get up and walk back to his own bedroom. "Go away," he mumbled softly, through half-closed eyes. He didn't want Mycroft to get sick as well.

"Vyncentte," This time Mycroft's voice was still placid but more firm as well.

"Go away, Mycroft," Vynce said louder this time, flinching as another one of his coughing fits took over him.

Mycroft ignored his brother's command pushing through the unlocked door and into the room to find Vynce on the floor. Pulling him up into a sitting position, Mycroft waited until the coughing subsided before letting Vynce lie down again.

"Why don't you ever listen to me?" Vynce asked feebly as Mycroft lowered himself to the floor beside him and rested his back against the wall.

"I do listen," Mycroft answered.

"I tell you 'go away' and you waltz in as if you own the place." Vynce muttered, closing his eyes against the spinning room.

"But I do own the place," Mycroft countered back, giving him a tired smile. "How are you feeling?"

Vyncentte didn't open his eyes, "If there was a word to describe it, it probably wouldn't be proper to say." His voice was almost inaudible. Vynce laid there motionless and silent, and Mycroft noticed he was wearing the pair of shabby clothes he always wore to bed. A ragged t-shirt torn at the collar and getting thin in other areas of the fabric and a pair of hand-me down shorts that had belonged to Sherlock. The shorts were a size too big kept up by tying the drawstrings very tightly. Mycroft observed that they made Vyncentte look even thinner than his actually was, alarmingly underweight and undernourished. He didn't like to dwell on the thought, pushing it aside in his mind.

Instead he reached over brushing some of his brother's hair away from his forehead and pressing his palm gently against its surface. Vyncentte was unconscious of his touch, but Mycroft registered that he was burning up with a high fever even though his body was shaking as if he'd caught a chill. This illness was worse than Mycroft had initially thought.

Drawing his hand away, Mycroft rose leaving the room for only a brief moment, retrieving a cold cup of water and a blanket before returning to Vyncentte. He managed to awake Vynce enough to convince him to sit up for a second time.

"Drink," he commanded, holding the cup to his brother's lips. Vynce complied willing sipping the cool liquid for a brief second then pulling away. He'd had enough, and Mycroft placed the glass on the counter top before again taking his own place on the floor. He took the blanket he had taken from the other room and wrapped it around Vynce, readjusting his brother to allow him to rest his head on his own knee.

Vyncentte drifted off in a light sleep, shifting his head every so often. Mycroft didn't mind the slight moments, keeping himself still for the comfort of his brother. The minutes dragged by, the night passing slowly onwards. Mycroft leaned against the wall, his own eyelids feeling heavy, and sleep attempted to overtake him.

* * *

Mycroft must have dozed off because he awoke a few hours later with a crick in his neck and a very sore back. It was probably the most uncomfortable physical position he'd been in in his life. He longed for his bed and wondered briefly how Vyncentte could stand lying on the hard tile floor of the bathroom in the state he was in.

He lightly shook Vyncentte awake, waiting for the boy to at least open his eyes.

"Hmm?" Vynce murmured under his breath, his eyes threatening to close again.

"Do you want a bed?" Mycroft asked him quietly, keeping one of his hands on his brother's shoulder to keep him awake.

"Bed?" Vynce mumbled. Mycroft began to think that Vyncentte didn't quite know where he was or what he was doing. He wanted to get the boy to a comfortable room where he could sleep off the fever that was making him so confused.

Mycroft stood up, pulling his brother up with him. Vyncentte refused to let him carry him from the room. Mycroft wasn't a very strong man, but despite his brother's height Vyncentte was lucky if his weight broke 10 stone. He could have easily bore the weight of his younger brother, but he settling on letting Vynce lean upon him for support as they walked from the room.

They walked through the dim hallway. When Vyncentte moved to take the route back to his attic room Mycroft steered him in a different direction.

"Not that way," Mycroft led him towards a different room, pushing open the door and helping his brother towards the large bed in the chamber. It was a guest room across the hall from Mycroft's bedroom. Mycroft felt the attic room was too far away for him to attend to his brother's needs if the occasion arose. From here, Vyncentte would be within listening range.

Pulling back the covers, Mycroft bid Vyncentte to lay down. The boy collapsed exhausted onto the mattress and Mycroft was sure that Vynce would be asleep again within the next couple minutes as he covered him with the blankets.

Vynce was so used to his twin mattress upstairs that he crowded towards the edge of the large bed unconsciously before allowing himself to drift off in the sweet blackness that came with sleep.

* * *

He awoke disoriented and utterly lost in his surroundings. Vynce didn't recognize the room he was in. It was certainly not his bedroom. He tried to think back to the previous night but his mind only recalled blurred memories. He remembered not feeling well, leaving his room, lying on the floor. Someone had come to him. Mycroft. Then Vynce woke up here in this dark strange bedroom with a large bed and unfamiliar walls. He wanted to go somewhere he recognized.

Shoving off the blankets, Vynce weakly pushed himself from the bed struggling to his feet. A wave of nausea passed over him, and he clutched at one of the bedposts to regain his balance. A voice came from the doorway.

"Oh no you don't," Eileen bustled into the room, pushing him back on the bed. "Your brother told me to not let you get up from the bed. Seems you've had a rough night." Rattled Vynce let her have her way without resisting. She readjusted the blankets around him. "Flu's a nasty business." She murmured.

"Eileen, where am I?" Vynce asked her.

"One of the guest rooms, dear," Eileen sat down on the edge of the bed pulling out a thermometer from one of her pockets and handing it to Vynce. "Same hall as Mycroft's room and the music room. In the mouth now." She beckoned for Vynce to stick the instrument under his tongue.

Vynce knew he was sick. He still felt horrible, so he complied with Eileen's wish. He was curious to know his own temperature as well. Seconds later, the thermometer beeped and Eileen took it from him.

She turned it in her hands. "39.1 degrees Celsius. Quite the fever you've managed to catch my young man." She rose from her place. "Get some more rest, Vynce. I'll bring you up something later." Eileen walked to the door, the light from the hallway briefly flooded the farther part of the room as she opened it and slipped out.

Vynce wanted to remain awake, but exhaustion won in the end as he laid back into the pillows and let the blackness come.

* * *

Mycroft returned home from work with a splitting headache and an ill mood. His lack of sleep the night before did not help matters at the office today. All he had wanted to do was go home, but he stayed the usual amount of time that would complete his shift. Others had not allowed him to leave for home early. But now here he was, walking into the door and dropping his briefcase and umbrella by the side table. He made his way to the kitchens to find Eileen and inquire how the day went at home. Mycroft wanted news on Vyncentte's condition.

"How is he doing?" He asked walking through the doorway. Eileen looked up from her work.

"As well as could be expected at this point." Eileen responded. "He spent most of the day sleeping. In fact that's probably what he is doing at the moment, which is a good thing too." She added. "He has a temperature of 39.1"

Mycroft frowned at the news. "Should I take him to the doctor?" He asked Eileen. Mycroft didn't know how to confront illness. How serious was this? What did he have to do?

Eileen shook her head. "It's just the flu Mr. Holmes," she reminded him. "Common people are able to battle through it on their own. All it takes is time and a little bit of medicine."

Mycroft sat on one of the stools by the center island and thought quietly for a moment. Finally he said, "Thank you for your help today. I'm afraid I'm rather lost when it comes to matters such as this."

"Not as lost as you seem to think you are," Eileen corrected him. She thought his actions during the first night were the right ones. "You did well."

"Still," Mycroft changed the subject. "I hope I can count on you to continue helping with Vyncentte until he gets better."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes," Eileen wanted to laugh. As if she would let Vyncentte suffer. This morning she had sworn to herself that she would nurse Vyncentte back to health. "Supper's in half an hour. I'm afraid it will just be you tonight." She informed Mycroft.

* * *

From the first day on Eileen became Vynce's nurse, and Vyncentte became progressively better. So well he was feeling one day in fact that it became a large battle to convince him to stay in bed.

"You need to take it easy, Vynce," Eileen argued once she caught him trying to sneak out from underneath the covers. "You're still not fully recovered."

"I'm bored," Vyncentte complained. "I just want to get up and do something for once instead of lying around all day."

"I'll bring you whatever you need," Eileen sighed, turning towards the door of the bedroom to go retrieve some things from his regular bedroom. "Stay in bed." She called over her shoulder, spying his movements in the corner of her eye as she left.

Eileen brought him books, some of his art supplies, and his sketch pad. She thought perhaps those things would occupy her charge for at least a few hours if she was lucky. She was right. But two hours later brought another tribulation.

Vynce began to hate the large bedroom he was in with the too large bed and the too elegant furniture. He wanted to be outside of it and see anything besides what he considered now to be his prison room. No longer able to distract himself from this feeling with things Eileen had brought him he decided his course of action. Throwing the blankets back he climbed from the bed and crossed the dark mahogany wood floor towards the door. He was cautious here, opening the heavy door and peering out into the hallway. It was empty.

Heart considerably lighter, Vynce slipped outside of the door and into the corridor. He only got up one flight of stairs before getting caught.

"Bed! Now! " Eileen lost her patience with him, and shepherded him back into the hated bedroom. "Your brother doesn't feel as if you should roaming around the house at this moment, and I certainly agree with him. What do you need?" she demanded.

"I just wanted my mobile," Vynce muttered bitterly, creating a lie on the spot.

"Well, just say so." Eileen huffed. "I'll get it. Lie down!" she sighed exasperated. The best Vyncentte did was sit on top of the covers. He absolutely refused to lie down, reflecting moodily over Eileen's and Mycroft overprotective measures that had been taking the last couple of days. It was beginning to tick him off.

Eileen returned handing him his mobile. "Do you feel you can eat something today?" she asked him.

"I'm not hungry." Vynce answered sullenly. It was an ever too common answer of his when it came to food. Eileen was not happy.

"I'll bring up soup." She told him, finally. He _was_ going to eat something. Eileen would not let him refuse food today. She left him alone to go down to the kitchens and prepare the food.

Vyncentte began to play with his phone, hitting his contacts button randomly. It was a sad list. Mycroft's mobile, Sherlock's mobile, Eileen's home phone, an old number of Charlie Collins that didn't work now since the family had moved. That was it. Well, Eileen was here, not that he wanted to talk to her. And Mycroft was a work, not that Vynce really wanted to talk to him right now either. He considered Sherlock for a second and realized he probably was the person he wanted to talk to right now. Sherlock texted though. Never talked. So Vynce opened a new message.

**Hey**

** VH**

**What?**

** SH**

**Bored.**

** VH**

**Come to London.**

** SH**

**Can't.**

** VH**

**What? Mycroft's leash doesn't reach that far?**

** SH**

**Shut up.**

** VH**

**What then?  
SH**

**Sick.**

** VH**

**I'd be sick of being a lapdog too if I were you.**

** SH**

** VH**

** Just joking then.**

** SH**

** Piss off**

** VH**

** So you really are sick. You never swear. Thought Mycroft had won for moment. Didn't want to send you to prep school so you wouldn't learn those nasty words.**

** SH**

** Go fuck yourself**

** VH**

Vynce tossed the phone away in disgust, his blood boiling. He couldn't ever count on Sherlock not to be a dick. But this really pissed him off. _I am not Mycroft's lapdog_, he told himself, taking one of his charcoal pencils in hand and his sketch pad in another. Furiously he busied himself trying to forget about Sherlock. He wanted to find a place in the world where he could be free of his brothers and feel normal. Somewhere where he didn't have to call ahead or have Tom or Stan to drive him. For once he wanted to take the underground. He wanted to stay away for the night and not have to tell anyone where he was or what he was doing or what time he would be home.

He stewed in these thoughts for most of the afternoon. Eileen came up once to bring up the promised bowl of chicken soup and once to remove the empty one Vynce had left her. He had eaten it without complaint. But he'd refused to talk. Eileen was okay with him simply because he was staying in bed and keeping busy. She took his silence in stride and left him alone.

* * *

Hours later Vynce heard the tell-tale signs from downstairs that Mycroft had come home from the office. Punctual, like clockwork. In the mood Vynce was in, Mycroft was the last person he wanted to see. He felt suffocated by all the attention and for once just wanted to be left alone when he heard his brother's footsteps on the stairs. He shifted his position, lying down and closing his eyes. He feigned sleep hoping Mycroft would go away then. He heard the door open, his brother coming inside, quiet so not to 'wake' him.

Mycroft approached the bed, pushing some of the books aside and clearing a small space for him to sit on the edge. Vynce felt him pause at the sketch book. A rustle of paper as it was examined and eventually put aside. Mycroft didn't known about the art, it was bound to be interesting then. The pressure of his brother sitting on the mattress didn't leave, he was still there.

Suddenly, Vyncentte felt a hand reach over and brush aside some of his hair from his forehead and rest on the skin's surface. Vynce managed to keep his body from going rigid with shock. He hoped whatever redness that was showing on his face would be attributed to his illness instead of the growing sense of embarrassment that was settling heavily in his stomach. He was full of mortification as the hand drew away its gentle pressure, carefully smoothing his hair back into place. The presence beside him rose from the bed and left him in the room alone.

Vyncentte opened his eyes trying to push away the uncomfortable feelings that now plagued him. The sensation of his brother's touch still lingered, even after his exit. Mycroft Holmes, always cool and composed, unaffectionate and ice, committing these strange actions so out of character. Why did he care so damn much? Why for him, Vyncentte? Just him, too. Vynce realized that he was only object of his brother's affection, the sole focus. Did Mycroft think of him as just a possession? Some treasured pet to have around the house? He began to think Sherlock was right.

Mycroft always treated him like he was made of glass. Ever since the night Vyncentte comforted Mycroft after bringing home a drugged Sherlock his elder brother had seemed too fixated on him and his well-being. Even more so the night Vyncentte had returned from the Collins House. That's when it began. The thaw. Mycroft laughed that night, probably for the first time Vyncentte had ever heard. He even attempted to joke. Each consecutive day a little bit of ice chipped off. Mycroft was becoming human. Just for Vynce, though. The rest of the world saw his never-ending supply of masks. Expressions to hide emotion, to show others he didn't care about a thing in the world. Lies. Vynce knew differently.

He wasn't sure he wanted it. Maybe at one point he had, but now he was feeling the opposite. Vynce wanted Mycroft to let go now. Leave him to be independent. Inside Vyncentte felt grown up, he wanted others to recognize that as well. Sherlock had managed to break away. Vynce hoped he could do the same.

* * *

Vyncentte finally managed to convince Eileen and Mycroft that he was truly recovered from his illness. He was given consent to leave the guest room that he had occupied the last week in, and he did so with a happy heart. Closing the door, he hoped he wouldn't have to see it ever again, or at least for a very long time. Vynce relished the fact he could once again go up to his attic room as he put his stuff away from the week.

Before placing his mobile back on the surface of his desk, Vynce opened a new message to Sherlock.

**I'm coming to London for a bit.**

** VH**

** Really?**

** SH**

** Yeah**

** VH**

** Mycroft's letting you?**

** SH**

** Doesn't matter what he thinks. Send me fare.**

** VH**

** On your head be it. Sending you 50 pounds.**

** SH**

Vynce put down the mobile. With a slight smile he went to his closet, pulling out an old and beaten looking valise he had found in one of the storage rooms that surrounded his bedroom and began to pack up some of his clothes. Enough for a couple of weeks at least. He wasn't choosy, just tossing in the first things his hands reached for. When the case was full he flipped the lid down, latching it firmly shut. He was ready to leave when his money arrived. He was also looking forward to seeing Sherlock in person again. It had been a long time.

* * *

It would be lying to say Mycroft Holmes was not surprised when he realized he had developed a hoarse cough of his own. It began at the office. He was in a middle of a sentence talking to Anthea when he broke off into a sudden fit. He managed to suppress the attack after a few seconds, swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat.

"Are you okay, sir?" Anthea asked, concern all over her face.

"I'm fine," Mycroft brushed her off. Though as she left, he reflected on what had just happened. _It looks as if you're not invincible after all_, Mycroft though drily to himself. He had caught the bout of flu that had confined Vyncentte to bed the previous week.

A few days found Mycroft in the same position. He was not well enough to go to the office, he wasn't even healthy enough to wander the house. Instead, he was left to lie in his own bedroom. Whatever this sickness was, it struck hard and it struck fast. Mycroft had never been sick before in his life. This strand of flu left him weak, powerless and feeling wretched.

Eileen felt the tension inside of the house with Mr. Holmes sick and Vyncentte newly recovered. Vynce stalked the house, restless as a caged lion, as if waiting for something. It was enough to drive her crazy.

"Sit down for once Vyncentte." She sighed passing the entrance of one of the parlors and seeing him pacing around the room. "Or find something to do."

Vyncentte grimaced visibly. "Did the post come yet?" He asked.

"No," Eileen became suspicious. "Why are you so interested in it?" she asked.

Vynce didn't answer her. Instead he folded his arms, and collapsed on one of the couches. She left him alone, going upstairs to check on Mr. Holmes and to see if he needed anything. Mycroft looked exhausted and worn, most likely bored as well if the blood in his veins matched that of his brothers.

"Do you need anything, Mr. Holmes?" she spoke quietly from the doorway.

Mycroft felt so much gratitude of having Eileen in the house. With him out of commission she kept things running smoothly and orderly. She also took good care that Vyncentte had everything he needed during the day. This week she had even stayed nights in one of the many guest rooms to make sure there was someone there if any needs arose.

"I'm fine Eileen," His voice was hoarse, but he was feeling better than he had been in previous days. Tired, but no longer sick to his stomach. "How are things downstairs?" he asked.

Eileen gave him a small smile to hide her concern. "We're all fine, dear." She assured him.

"Vynce?"

Eileen's smile vanished for a brief second and then returned. "He's doing okay. Feeling a little cooped up, but he's doing fine."

Mycroft imagined he knew how his brother felt. At the moment he was wishing that he was able to get out of bed and do something worthwhile. Like go to the office.

"I'll send up a bowl of something a little later, Mr. Holmes." Eileen promised him backing out of his room and closing the door. She would be glad when the Holmes boys would be fully recovered and back to normal. Until then she would just have to wait.

* * *

It seems that Vyncentte had found something else to do in the end. He was lounging on the same couch Eileen had left him at softly strumming a guitar as she brought in the day's mail. The sound was almost inaudible and she realized it was the instrument she had brought to the house months beforehand. Her husband had severe arthritis in his hands and could not play anymore. He had given Eileen his guitar to do with what she liked. Eileen made it a gift to Vyncentte who she realized didn't know how to play. But a few weeks later, with some patience and practice, Vynce got the hang of it. Afterwards, Eileen figured that given any instrument the boy could divine how to operate it and become quite the expert.

She didn't recognize the song, "What are you playing, dear?" She asked him handing him the one envelope that was addressed to him.

"Nothing," Vynce set the instrument aside and accepted the letter. "Just playing around." He could compose now if he wanted to. Flipping the envelope in his hands to look at the front face, Vynce recognized the spidery handwriting to be Sherlock's. This was it. It finally came. He ripped it open, being careful to not take out the money in front of Eileen, but instead slip out the note that accompanied it.

_** Vynce,**_

_** This should cover any expenses to get here. Don't do anything stupid along the way.**_

_** Sherlock**_

Vynce liked it. It was short and to the point and didn't contain any complex orders or demands. It gave him a lot of free choice as well. He waited until Eileen left the room to fish out the bills that were still in the envelope and rolled them up to stick in his jean pocket. Then he picked up his guitar again and resumed his quiet strumming. Eileen re-entered the room with tray in hand. A steaming bowl of soup was balanced on its surface.

"Do me a favor Vynce and take this up to your brother." She told him, setting it down on the coffee table before him. Vynce kept on strumming and didn't answer. "Vyncentte."

"No." he finally said, stopping his playing and setting the guitar down once more. "Take it up yourself." He told her.

Eileen crossed her arms and sighed. "Vynce, I think your brother would rather see you right now. Just take it up to him." Vynce refused to even look at the tray, and Eileen finally decided something was wrong with him. She sat down on the couch beside Vynce.

"Something more has been going on these past couple of days than just not feeling okay or being bored." She began quietly. "Are you going to share with me why you've taken a sudden aversion to your oldest brother?"

Vynce's face twisted and he was silent for a moment. Then, "He always treats me like such a kid, you know?"

Eileen finally understood what was going on. "Vyncentte Mathias Holmes," she chided gently. "I know what you are thinking and don't you dare do it to that poor man."

Vynce was confused. Did she know about the money Sherlock sent and his plans to leave and stay a term in London? "What do you mean?" he asked suspiciously.

"Don't you dare grow up too fast," she had to make him understand some things. "There are going to be times in your future when you're going to want to be treated like a kid again. When those times come, you'll understand. Don't wish these times away, Vyncentte."

"I'm thirteen." Vynce said softly.

"Your brother's had you for six years, Vynce," Eileen reminded him. "And he's only really had you for less. The law lets him have you until you're eighteen, which means he's still entitled for five more that you want to cheat him out of."

Vyncentte frowned. Five years was a long time. Eileen realized she would have to use a different method to get him to understand.

"Vyncentte, when a person wakes up in the morning, knowing that someone is depending on them to be there, it gives them a purpose in their life." She paused. "You know, your brother helps a lot of people every day with his job, but helping a faceless crowd isn't the same. You've given him such a purpose in life, Vynce. It helps your brother to feel needed. He's so much happier than I've seen him in years. Let him have that purpose."

Vyncentte didn't say anything to her. Eileen remembered the letter she had passed onto Vyncentte that day. The handwriting told her that Sherlock had made contact with Vyncentte. She knew when these bouts of rebellious feelings encircled him it was usually after a time when he had connected with Sherlock.

"Whatever Sherlock said or did-" Eileen started only to get cut off by Vynce.

"Sherlock didn't do anything." Vynce had harbored these emotions within himself for what seemed to him to be a long time. Sherlock was merely the key that had released them.

"I've known what he's done and said in the past about you and Mycroft," Eileen informed him. "And I'm telling you not to take heed of any of it. Enjoy this when it lasts. You may have reached a point that you feel you no longer need Mycroft, but Mycroft needs you more than you know. Give him the time he needs."

Vyncentte's eyes wandered to the tray on the table, small eddies of steam still rising from the bowl. Eileen noticed.

"Will you take the tray up to your brother?" She asked again.

Reluctantly, Vynce nodded his head, rising and taking it into his hands. He balanced it with skill walking out of the room and leaving Eileen alone.

* * *

There was no answer to the soft rap that was created when Vyncentte's knuckles met the surface of Mycroft's door. _Perhaps it was because the wood was too thick_, he thought sullenly. He tried the door handle finding it easily yielding to his touch. It opened to reveal a room that looked very similar to the room that Vynce had spent his own sick time in.

Stepping into the chamber Vyncentte saw the profile of his brother lying on the bed. He must have been sleeping, for he didn't make a move as Vynce walked further into the room. Somehow, Vynce was relieved. He wasn't sure if he could have tolerated having his brother awake at this moment. He still needed to get used to the ideas Eileen had just planted inside of his head.

_Five more years,_ he told himself, stepping with care so he didn't make a sound. _Five more years. _He had reached the side table by the bed and set the tray down on its surface. The china clinked rather too loudly for the silent room. Vynce froze for the slightest of seconds, then turned away ready to sneak out of the door and back downstairs. He barely took three steps.

"Vyncentte?" the call was low in volume accompanied by the smallest of movements from the bed. Vynce closed his eyes briefly, collecting himself before turning back around to face the bed.

"Hey," Vyncentte gave a weak smile, turning. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you up."

Mycroft sat up in bed, allowing the briefest of glances towards the tray his brother had just brought up. "It's absolutely fine," he assured Vynce, "I enjoy the company, and am rather tired of just sleeping. I feel like I've been doing it for days."

"You have." Vynce replied. An awkward silence followed. Vynce rocked on his heels uncomfortably.

"How are things downstairs?" Mycroft finally asked.

"Quiet." Vynce replied curtly. "Eileen's having her run of the place. I think she rather enjoys it."

"I bet she does," Mycroft ventured. Another silence.

Vynce really wanted to leave the room. He tried to figure out a way to excuse himself politely. "Well…um,"

"Stay for while?" Mycroft proposed at the same time. He wanted company, and it had been days since he had seen his youngest brother.

Vynce choked back the words that were about to tumble from his mouth with, "I suppose so, yes." He glanced around himself for a second before perching himself uncomfortably on the edge of a nearby chair. There was no way he could graciously leave now.

Mycroft studied him for a moment. Something was off. A conversation with Vynce had not been this awkward and disjointed for a while. He cleared his own throat. "How are you feeling?" he asked Vynce.

"I'm fine." Vynce assured him.

"Things back to normal?"

"Yep."

"Good," Mycroft murmured more to himself than anyone. "Good." They lapsed back into silence.

Vynce sat rigid in his chair, Eileen's words crowding his mind. The pound notes he was keeping secret burned inside of his pocket. He couldn't tell Mycroft about London right now. It'd be so unfair if what Eileen had told him was true. Swallowing something that seemed to be blocking his throat he caught himself saying something crazy.

"You want to play chess?" Vynce offered. He almost bit his tongue. Why did he just say that? Mycroft didn't play games.

Mycroft's pale grey eyes met his. "Sure," he agreed hesitantly. He knew how to play, the strategy, the methods. He had never played with Vyncentte before. That had always been Sherlock whenever he had decided he had enough time to spare for their little brother.

Mycroft waited. Vyncentte was frozen in surprise.

"Go get your board," Mycroft prompted him gently. Vynce felt himself rise from his chair and leave the room. He walked up the stairs to his own bedroom. The chess set he'd owned for years laid on the surface of the steamer trunk at the end of his bed. His hands closed around the wooden case, picking it up and tucking it under his arm. He made his way back to Mycroft's bedroom.

Vynce walked back into the room, pushing a table to the side of the bed. He placed the set on its surface and pushed the chair he had sat in closer to the set up. Mycroft was thoroughly awake now and ready for whatever was to come.

Unlatching the bronze fasteners, Vyncentte opened the chess set up and paused when he saw the pieces inside. He looked up at Mycroft. "White or black?" Vynce offered his brother the choice. One of Mycroft's pale hands closed around the ivory king piece.

"If you don't mind…" Mycroft added as an afterthought to his selection. Vyncentte didn't. It seemed hard to imagine Mycroft's chess pieces to be anything but white. Mycroft was innately 'good', his profession centered on law and justice. He always wanted whatever was best for Vyncentte. Vynce always connected the black chess pieces to a more evil archetype. It suited himself for now. He was feeling rather horrid at the moment because he couldn't explain his feelings of animosity towards the man.

His nimble fingers set up his own black army in their correct positions. Mycroft readied his own on the opposite side of the board. When all was ready Mycroft made the first move, sliding one of his pawns forward two squares. Vyncentte reciprocated moving one of his own pieces. They played in silence for a few moments, each capturing important pieces of the other player.

Mycroft realized his brother was far more talented at the game than he had thought. Vyncentte's moves were sometimes brutal and risky, others more safe and cautious. He knew how the play the game, set up traps and avoid Mycroft's own tricks. It surprised him. Mycroft had thought he would need to play at a more intermediate level so his brother had a chance at winning. Now he was trying to keep up with Vyncentte's pieces and determine what the motivation behind his moves was.

"You're better at this than I thought." Mycroft commented capturing one of Vynce's knights with his remaining bishop. He set it off to the side of the board.

"You're not too shabby yourself." Vynce remarked. Mycroft was better at chess than Sherlock was. Vyncentte had superseded the skills of his other brother years ago, but now he found Mycroft was something of a challenge to go up against. He apprehended Mycroft's queen with a rook that had been lying in wait. Mycroft hadn't seen his plan and silently mourned the loss of one of his power pieces.

Vyncentte studied the board intently after Mycroft's next move. Twelve moves until checkmate. He was feeling optimistic about his chances of winning and stationed his own queen in place for the future. They played out the game, and Vyncentte seized Mycroft's king between his queen and rook.

"Checkmate."

Mycroft leaned back into the pillows and gave Vyncentte a tired smile. "Good job." He congratulated his brother sincerely. All of his own efforts had been expended and Mycroft knew Vyncentte had won fair and square.

The tension in the room had begun to disappear during the game, and both brothers seemed to be more relaxed. Mycroft watched as Vyncentte collected the pieces and placed them back in the box. Picking up one of the chess pieces, Mycroft studied it intently. He was trying to gather the courage to ask his younger brother something that had been bothering him. "Vynce, is there something you wanted to talk about?" Vyncentte stopped collecting the pieces. His chest was feeling lighter and he didn't feel much like he had been feeling before. "Not much anymore." He answered truthfully.

Mycroft's brow furrowed in concern. "Anymore?"

"I don't know… I suppose-" he paused, Vynce didn't know really how to put it into words. "I guess, I mean it's all good here really and all but… sometimes I miss Sherlock."

"I suppose that's to be—expected." Mycroft had tried very hard to try to fill any voids that were created by their brother's absence. Yet he always knew how close Vyncentte was to Sherlock. And how it affected him that Sherlock was not there.

Vyncentte didn't expect his brother to understand. He and Sherlock never got along at all, always arguing, disagreeing, and insulting each other.

Mycroft tried to think about what could make the situation better. "I have to go to France for a while in February."

Vynce was confused. "Oh. That's cool, I guess."

"I want you to go to London and stay with Sherlock when I'm gone." Mycroft told him. "It'll give you time to spend with him. And then I can give Eileen a pretty good vacation as well."

Gratitude spread throughout Vyncentte's body. It was Mycroft's idea now. Vynce was going to make it to London. Two months later than he expected, but he could wait.

Walking out of the bedroom hours later Vyncentte remembered he had entered thinking five years was an awful long time. Now five years seemed rather short. He hoped they weren't too short. They were now for his own benefit as well as Mycroft's.


	10. Snow Day

_Hello! I'm so happy I have all this time to write now, it's resulting in some real progress! Another chapter about Mycroft and Vynce. Planning on working in Sherlock for next chapter. Again, I am still open to any suggestions or ideas :) so if anyone wants to share them with me I am totally open to hearing them. _

_Please Read, Enjoy, and Review!_

_V. Jenkins_

Ever since his conversation with Eileen, Vyncentte had been acutely aware of his brother Mycroft's feelings. It was no easy task to discover what lay behind some of Mycroft's expressions. He'd become so practiced at wearing masks that he sometimes came home from the office and exchanged his mask of indifference for a mask of fake happiness. Vyncentte just wished Mycroft wouldn't fake emotions to hide whatever he was actually feeling.

Yet there was one night that there was no use of masks. Vyncentte remembered the look on his eldest brother's face very clearly as Mycroft entered the house after a day of work. Tired, worn down, he looked immensely old. Too old for what his actual age was. He'd slid his umbrella into its place in the stand by the door. He'd let his briefcase slip from his weary fingers and drop to the floor beside the table that flanked the door frame.

Standing by the foot of the main stair, Vynce had remained quiet as Mycroft passed him. He watched his brother ascend and slip into one of the rooms of the first landing. The soft clinking of glass on glass could be heard from the room's interior. Vynce deduced that Mycroft was pouring himself a glass of brandy, something he often did after a difficult day.

Vynce thought about what had just happened. Mycroft hadn't acted like this since… Vynce couldn't remember. Certainly, not in the past year. He wandered up the steps and paused outside of the door that his brother had just disappeared into. No sound came from the interior. Maybe it was better if Vynce just left him alone for a while. He crept back downstairs and found his way to the kitchens to talk with Eileen.

"Hello, Vyncentte" Eileen greeted him as he entered.

"Hey," he sat down at one of stools. "Do you know what's up with Mycroft?"

Eileen paused in her work, setting down a knife on the cutting board and wiping her hands on a dishcloth. "What do you mean?"

"I don't really know I guess." Vynce confessed. "I think maybe he had a bad day at work."

It must have been a very bad day. Mycroft didn't come down for dinner, instead he sent down for a tray to be brought up to him. Vynce ate alone in the kitchens.

After he was through with his meal, Vyncentte returned upstairs. It was going to be a quiet night, Vynce would be left to his own solitude. He ended up in the parlor next door to the room Mycroft was in. It was one of the few rooms in the house that actually had a television. Sitting down on the couch, he decided to turn the telly on, for background noise more than anything else. Perhaps there would be a good movie on. He always enjoyed films, never could get enough of them, but tonight there was nothing of the like on any of the channels.

The reds bars scrolled across the bottom of the screen. 'Breaking News'. 'Just in'. 'Live Coverage'. Reporters were stationed outside of a street of collapsed buildings. Police tape marked off the sidewalks. People were crowding in the background. Vynce clicked the buttons on the remote flipping through the stations. Every channel had on something similar. Vynce paused on one that had a brunette female reporter broadcasting.

_'Police are unsure of who or what organization is behind the attacks. It is rumored that certain terrorist cells might be responsible for this destruction. Authorities are right now…'_

"Turn it off, Vyncentte." Mycroft voice reached him from the other room. His tone couldn't necessarily be considered brusque, but it certainly wasn't the tone he usually reserved in speaking with his youngest brother.

Vynce obliged cutting the power of the telly with a press of the button. The reporters and headlines faded into a black screen. He sat in boredom for a while. There was really nothing to do. Then he remembered a conversation he had had with Eileen in the morning. It had snowed the night before and Eileen was concerned. Their groundskeeper, Warren, was laid up with a broken leg, a casualty of an icy morning. The drive way still wasn't cleared from the snow, and tonight there was supposed to be more precipitate. Vyncentte had offered to clear the drive himself.

"Well, no better time than now I suppose," Vynce muttered to himself getting up and going to his room. Outside was cold, and he certainly could not go outside in his usual t-shirt and jeans. He threw on a grey jumper to add a layer. He also doubled up his socks. He grabbed his jacket, the heavier one he used in the winter, and the knit hat he sometimes wore. Only sometimes. He stuffed it in one of the pockets, refusing to put it on unless dire circumstances demanded it. Multiple times Mycroft or Eileen would threatened frostbite to him, but it still didn't change matters.

He exited his room and climbed down the stairs to the front door. Pulling a pair of boots from the closet, he slipped them on and laced them up before opening the door and braving the cold winds outside.

* * *

Mycroft cradled his brandy glass in one of his hands and kept his silent reverie in the armchair by the window. The only thing he had responded to this evening was the sounds of the television from the parlor next to the room he was in. The broadcast had been too much for him to listen to. He had told Vyncentte to shut it off. His brother had obeyed without question and Mycroft was glad he didn't have to explain himself. He could always count on Vyncentte to be affable. If it was Sherlock, Mycroft was sure there would have been an hour dispute over the telly and Mycroft would have to go and forcibly turn it off.

Deep down, he felt grateful that Vynce was not making the evening any more difficult than necessary. His little brother was really too good of a kid. Always so considerate and well-meaning. He made Mycroft wonder what sort of defect Sherlock possessed that made his such a challenging person to deal with.

Mycroft began to feel restless for the first time in his life, a deep urge to get up from his chair began to burrow deep in his chest. That was unusual. Usually whenever he was in a chair he never wanted to get up. He rose from his seat, unbuttoned his suit coat and shrugged it off. Loosening his tie, he walked to the window and looked down on the scene below.

Winter had decked everything in a fresh coat of snow, leaving the landscape white and downy. Mycroft could feel the cold of the outside radiate from the window's glass surface. It was frigid December air. Christmas was only a few weeks away. Mycroft thought about the holiday. There had never been a happy Christmas at the Holmes estate. He wondered if this year would be different. He wanted it to be different.

There was movement down below that caught his attention. Mycroft recognized the slight profile of his brother braving the winter winds. Vynce was in the drive, shovel in hand, making straight passes across the asphalt, clearing away the snow. Mycroft's eyes wandered down the long drive. The boy was never going to finish tonight. At least not by himself.

He got the urge to go outside himself. Maybe it would take his mind off of things. Help him relax. Leaving the room he paused on the landing at the head of the stair. Mycroft caught his reflection in one of the hallway mirrors. Waistcoat and pressed suit pants. He couldn't go outside like this. Walking to his room, Mycroft approached his closet and opened its doors. Everything he owned seemed to be wrong. Wrong at least for physical work on a snowy evening. Why on earth would he own clothes for that anyway? Then he remembered something he had bought years ago. He found them in bottom drawer of his bureau. A pair of jeans. Never worn. He didn't even know why he had bought them. Maybe for the unlikely case he ever had to go undercover or slip out of the country without being noticed. Mycroft Holmes would never stray from suits and ties. Nobody would expect him to own a piece of clothing such as a pair of jeans.

They had fit when he put them on. He had also found an old sweater in the back of the closet. The new attire was strange, yet practical for this evening. He left his room and took the stairs down to the front hall where he found a suitable pair of shoes. Opening the door, he stepped out into the evening cold, the chill of the night not bothering him at all.

* * *

Vyncentte felt a presence beside him in in the darkness. Then heard a scrape of metal on asphalt behind him. He spun around alarmed to see a man holding a shovel full of snow. Vynce almost didn't recognize him at first; he needed to stare quite hard at the face to be truly certain of the person's identity.

"Mycroft?" The name rang clear in the frosty air between them.

The man kept working, steadily moving a small pile of snow at a time. "Yes, Vyncentte."

Vynce didn't say anything more. His cold hands gripped his own shovel tighter and he fell back to his rhythmic work. They shoveled in silence, and Mycroft could understand why people could feel peaceful at this. He felt Vynce contemplating him from the small distance that separated them. Then his brother went back to work again only to pause another time shortly after. Mycroft ignored him heaving another shovelful of snow off towards the edge of the driveway only to have something icy hit him in the back. He turned around to see Vynce turn away quickly and scrape up some more snow with his shovel.

After a few seconds, Mycroft went back to his own work only to have the same occurrence happen one more time. He turned again. Vynce tried to act nonchalant, but Mycroft could see the smirk the boy was trying to hide.

Mycroft raised his eyebrows half-amused. "You think that's funny?" he asked Vyncentte seriously.

Vynce was trying not to laugh but miserably failing at his attempt. "You—you should see your face." He choked out between laughs. His skin glowed pale in the frigid air.

Mycroft couldn't help himself either. The spirit of his brother was intoxicating. He let out a low chuckle himself. "What's stopping me from giving you a face wash right now?" He playfully threatened his brother.

Vynce grinned outright, "You wouldn't do that."

"Oh, wouldn't I?" Mycroft dropped his shovel and made a sudden advance at Vyncentte only to have his brother dash out of reach. Vyncentte could outrun Mycroft easily, yet he liked playing cat-and-mouse. He'd run a distance pause until Mycroft caught up again or loop back around and evade his brother's reach as he rushed by. Mycroft held on to the half-foolish idea that he could catch Vyncentte and deliver a fitting 'punishment' for the two previous snowballs.

But by the time Mycroft finally did catch up to his little brother he was too tired to do anything besides throw his arm around the boy's shoulders and pull him into an affectionate half-hug. They settled on walking the snowy grounds together.

"You look funny in jeans and jumper." Vynce commented on his brother's irregular attire. "And you aren't even wearing a jacket. You'd give me hell if I went outside like that."

"The cold doesn't bother me." Mycroft said. "And you young man aren't even wearing a hat." He messed up his brother's hair good naturedly. Vyncentte ducked away from him, but only for a second, slipping back under his arm. The soft knit fibers of Mycroft's sweater brushed against his bare neck. They walked onwards, the bright snow illuminated by the upcoming moonlight, its white sleet crusted around the trees' branches. The grounds were placid, calm and cool. An isolated haven for the two of them.

Vyncentte spoke finally. "You know none of it's your fault." Mycroft stopped in his tracks pulling Vynce to a halt as well.

"What is?"

"That stuff on the telly." Vynce explained. "It's not your fault. If anything _could have_ been done you would have found it and it wouldn't have happened. But since it happened there was nothing anyone could have done to be able to prevent it, so you gotta stop beating yourself up."

Mycroft regarded his brother in silence. White crystalline flakes began to fall; the fresh snow was coming. He eventually offered Vyncentte a smile, still tainted with sadness but also laced with a bit of hope. They turned back around, walking back to the house.

"What do you want to do for Christmas this year?" Mycroft asked his brother.

Vynce grinned. "Aren't we going to do what we always do?" he joked. "Each of us all choose a different room and wait for the others to wish us a happy holiday?" He made references to the Christmases that had passed uncelebrated during their lives. Mycroft didn't laugh at his joke and he gave up. "What makes this Christmas so special?" Vynce asked finally.

Mycroft tramped through the snow, matching his brother's pace. His feet were starting to get cold. "Special?" he paused to figure out how to say it. "I guess it's special because I finally have someone to celebrate it with this year."

Vyncentte was happy to hear these words; he longer felt so cold here in the snow. "We should invite Sherlock." He said.

What Mycroft really wanted to say was '_Don't you think he would ruin the holiday?'_, but he restrained himself. "Whatever you want." He told Vynce. Determined to make this Christmas everything for his brother, Mycroft was willing to make any sacrifices necessary. "You ask him to come over and we'll welcome him home for the holidays."

They had made it back to the driveway and Vynce realized it was not fully cleared and the sun was finally gone replaced by the moon. It was getting late.

"Leave it be, Vynce," Mycroft said as his brother picked up one of the shovels. "We'll still be fine in the morning." He was pretty sure that any of his Ashton Martins could overcome the oncoming snow. "Come inside and get warm."

The brothers re-entered the Holmes mansion, escaping the frosty winter air. Soon they were stationed in one of the parlor rooms, warming themselves and drying their wet clothes by the fire Mycroft managed to build. Eventually Vynce fell asleep on the sofa he had positioned himself on and Mycroft was left to his own solitude in the armchair he had posted himself in.

He was feeling considerably happier than he had been earlier in the evening, his troubling day from work almost forgotten. Tomorrow loomed over him though, a little grey, a little ominous. None of his problems would disappear overnight. They would still be waiting for him at the office. Yet looking around his surroundings, the warm room and the familiar house, even his unusual clothes, he realized this was a place he could always go to escape from the outer world. He glanced over to his brother quietly dozing on the couch.

This draft, old house Mycroft had inherited had become a haven for him. Everything in it and that had come with it had made his life better. Even the responsibility he had been given to take care of his brothers had turned out for the better. Rising from his chair, he took another log from the stack of firewood and placed it on the burning embers. Staring into the flames, Mycroft decided he wouldn't have it any other way.


	11. The Fairer Sex---nobodyimportant

_A/N: Inspired by a suggestion from __**nobodyimportant**__. Vynce meets a girl that takes his fancy. Things get interesting when his brothers learn about his crush. _

It all started with a trip to the coffee shop. Mycroft had let him go into London for the day, even let him take a cab. Vynce had decided to pay Sherlock a visit at his flat, but before going off into the direction of Manette Street he needed to settle a caffeine fix. Ducking into a nearby café, the aroma of freshly brewed espresso reached him from the door. As Vynce walked further into the store he noticed that the tiny shop was almost deserted; only one or two patrons sat at the tables nursing cups of coffee.

He worked his way to the counter, scanning the menu board as he waited for someone to come to the register.

"Can I help you?" a small voice asked. Vynce drew his attention from the board and realized a girl had come up to the desk. Something lurched in his stomach. She was pretty. Very, very pretty.

She waited for him to speak, yet he could only stand there and hope she didn't quite notice how flushed his face had become.

"What can I get you?" she probed nicely.

"Um—uh. Coffee. Black…two—two sugars." He stammered the first thing that came to his mind. _Stupid he sounded stupid_.

"Okay," she smiled at him, brushing a loose strand of her ginger hair aside. She rang him up. "One and fifty pounds."

He pulled out a five pound note from his jacket pocket, and she poured coffee from a pot into a Styrofoam travel cup and pressed the lid on. The currency was exchanged for the drink, and Vynce turned to leave.

"Um—excuse me." She called after him.

Vynce stopped and turned around.

"Your change." The total he had given her far overpaid the cup of coffee. She held out the money towards him, waiting for him to retrieve it.

"Keep it," He strained his eyes to read her nametag. "Brenn." The perks of being from a rich family, one could overpay for anything. Besides… it wasn't even his money. Mycroft had given him a large budget for his day out. He left in a hurry, his heart twisting in his chest. Brenn… such a fitting name. Her very person made him burn.

"Thanks!" Brenn called out after the fleeting figure. _Nice guy… usually everyone forgot to tip._

* * *

Vynce reached Manette Street in record time and buzzed for Sherlock's flat. The door unlocked and Vynce scaled the stairs to the upper flat. Sherlock had already opened the door for him and Vynce pushed through to find his brother sprawled on the couch. He was wearing a dressing gown over pajamas, a focused look plastered on his face.

"Hey," Vynce closed the door. He still carried the cup of coffee in his hand. It was untouched, he hadn't been able to take a drink from it.

"Mmh," was the only response he got from Sherlock. Vynce surrendered the coffee to him. He would drink it. Black, two sugars, it was the way he liked it.

"Here," Vynce thrust the warm cup into his brother's folded hands.

"This is yours." Sherlock deduced after studying the cup, turning it in his thin hands. "You bought it for yourself."

"Have it," Vynce insisted. "I don't want it." He sat on one of the chairs, brushing off a few items to make room for himself.

Sherlock frowned, putting aside the glass. Coffee was not in his interest right now. "What happened to you?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Yes. Nothing."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Not nothing."

"Drop it." Vynce warned him against going any farther.

His eyes roved around the messy apartment. Clutter was everywhere. Books. Newspapers. Scientific supplies. Even Sherlock's skull leered from one of the bookshelves at him. "What are you doing?" It was almost noon and his brother had not changed into proper clothes.

"Working…" Sherlock steepled his hands together.

Vynce raised an eyebrow. "What exactly do you do again?"

"People consult me." Sherlock answered in a lazy voice. "I solve their problems." He lapsed back into silence.

Vynce knew when Sherlock acted like this it was best to leave him to his own devices. Rolling his eyes at his brother's insolence, he pushed himself up from the chair and disappeared into the kitchen. It resembled an area a HAZMAT team would have potential interest in. Sherlock's microscope was perched on one of the narrow counters, an assortments of vials and slides scattered beside it. A broken petri dish laid in the sink, some scalpels and forceps mixed in with the broken glass. Vynce wondered briefly if any of the bottles in the room contained poison. He wouldn't have been surprised if it turned out to be true.

The scene was abominable in Vynce's opinion. He didn't remember his brother as being such of a source of spatial chaos, though granted he had only been allowed one room in the vast house to claim as his own. Here at the flat, Sherlock had the run of the place and was, in fact, taking advantage of it.

Vynce opened the refrigerator door and felt his muscles freeze. He slowly closed it after a moment, then opened it again. It was still there. He still felt shocked.

"Sherlock…"

"Mmh?"

"There's a leg in your fridge." It was true. A bloody leg. A _human _leg!

"Don't mind it." Sherlock responded from the other room. "I got it from St. Bart's the other day. Just leave it."

Vyncentte's eyes couldn't leave the appendage that was currently residing by an empty milk carton and a thawed package of what looked like bad steak. Suddenly the flat was feeling a bit too much for him. He let the fridge door close on the gruesome sight inside and turned back to the living room.

"I think I'm going to go out some." He stated, needing fresh air and the streets of London to clear his head.

"You don't need my permission." Sherlock muttered. It got annoying whenever Vyncentte decided he had to announce to the world he plans. Mycroft was probably the source of it, he thought bitterly. Always demanding where, when, and why. Sherlock wanted Vynce to know he didn't care what the hell he did. Just do it if he wanted to.

Vynce stood there. Sherlock didn't say anything more. He took it as he cue to leave and walked down to the street level door.

* * *

When Vynce arrived back at the flat he was in better spirits. A walk in Hyde Park plus a stroll that brought him around Downing Street was enough to clear his mind. He had wasted the rest of the afternoon around Westminster. Upon walking back into the flat, Vynce noticed Sherlock had cleaned up since the morning. He had put on a proper set of clothes and was rather more attentive to physical things than his own thoughts.

"I'll probably head back around to the house," Vynce commented after a few minutes of watching Sherlock flip through some files and papers.

Sherlock glanced up for a moment. Then his eyes rested on the coffee cup Vynce had brought in earlier that day. They flashed with some interest. Suddenly he gathered the papers that had formerly dominated his focus and stuffed them into a folder, flinging it onto the table. "I'll come with." He said.

"You're coming to the house?" Vynce laughed at the idea. Sherlock usually didn't come by the place without a good deal of complaining and much extra prodding from Vyncentte.

Sherlock looked at him, a serious expression on his face. "Of course." He stated simply. His pale hand picked up the coffee cup from the table, its contents cold now.

Vynce looked at the cup as well. Right now, he was wishing he had thrown it away.

They had arrived at the Holmes estate together in a cab. Vynce slipped out of the car, ready to close the cab door only to have his brother stop it with his own hand. Sherlock climbed out of the car and paid the driver the fare.

"You're coming _into_ the house?" Vynce asked as the cab pulled away and towards the outer gate of the drive.

"Might as well," Sherlock gave him a sardonic half-smile. "Perhaps I'll even stay for dinner. I haven't been able to inquire upon Mycroft about his diet in some time. It'd should be fun, shouldn't it?" He started to make his way to the front door.

"Maybe for you…" Vynce muttered under his breath, following Sherlock's figure. A glance at the garage told him Mycroft was already home and inside the house. His day at the office must have been rather uneventful to have him home on time. A part of him wished Mycroft _had_ had a longer day at the office. Sherlock might have lost interest in whatever had brought him here and would have left without any trouble and without Mycroft getting involved. Vynce was starting to have a foreboding feeling of why Sherlock wanted to come to the house. He didn't like that his brother seemed so eager to come.

Their eldest brother must have seen their arrival from one of the upstairs windows for he was waiting for them on the top of the stairwell.

"Good time today, Vynce?" he asked him, genuinely interested.

"I'd say," Sherlock came into Mycroft's view, answering for his brother himself.

Mycroft pursed his lips at the sight of Sherlock, regarding him with an expression of slight distaste. All he would offer his brother was a sour smile.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft."

"Good to see you," Mycroft followed the formalities of politeness, "As always."

"Quite the same." No one could miss the sarcasm in his voice.

Mycroft drew in a breath. His brother was really testing his patience. "Would you stay for dinner?"

"Love to." Sherlock was far too happy to receive the invitation.

"Six o'clock." Mycroft coldly gave him the time that dinner would be ready.

* * *

An hour later they were seated the table in the Holmes dining hall, a lavish spread upon the large maple table. Vynce felt rather uncomfortable having Sherlock there. Mycroft was wondering why on earth his other brother decided to come home and stay for dinner. He also noticed Vyncentte's uneasiness at the prospect. He tried to figure out a way to calm his youngest brother.

"So you never answered me yourself," Mycroft started the conversation, glancing over at Vyncentte. "How was your day?"

Sherlock suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. _Oh great… they act like they care about what the other does during the day._ He was utterly disgusted with the idea. Sentiment was for the weak. Mycroft knew that as well. Sherlock assumed his older brother was playing at a façade being so interested in their brother, yet he didn't know the motive. He picked up his fork and knife, stabbing at his meat with a little too much vigor than necessary.

Vynce eyed him with a strange look, then turned to Mycroft. "It was fine."

"More than fine I should imagine," Sherlock commented from his seat. "Vyncentte has love on his mind."

"Shut up!" Vynce couldn't keep his face from turning red at his brother's words. He was getting sick of Sherlock's presence.

"Love?" Mycroft echoed the word.

"Love." Sherlock confirmed. He pulled something from underneath the table and set it on its surface. It was the coffee cup. Empty now of its contents because Sherlock had disposed of the cold coffee before leaving his flat. "Vyncentte has met a girl."

Mycroft reached over and took the object in his hand, rotating it once and setting it down again. Sherlock waited for a further reaction. He was certain that this would drive a wedge between his brothers. Mycroft failed to satisfy him.

"About time," he commented off-handedly, dismissing the cup and taking a bite of food.

"About time?" Sherlock repeated.

"I'm sorry, I forgot you skipped this phase in life." Mycroft threw a thin insult at him. Vynce was amused now that Sherlock's plan seemed to be not working.

"Skipped this phase?" Vynce asked.

Mycroft gave him a true smile. "Sherlock was never interested in girls. Not as far as I remember. And still seems to have quite the aversion to them, I might add."

"That's because he's gay." Vynce responded. Mycroft laughed softly at this remark.

"No, I'm not." Sherlock corrected him. "Asexual."

"Gay." Vynce repeated. "You don't know it yet."

"I'm not interested in relationships." Sherlock snapped. "Besides we're talking about you not me."

"Sherlock..." Mycroft warned him quietly. "Let him be." He was still quite entertained by the whole situation.

"You're just laughing because he's not attacking your sexuality." Sherlock stated. Mycroft chose not to respond and took his glass in hand.

"Fine," Vynce took the conversation into his own hands. Sherlock was feeling exposed and disgruntled that Mycroft was not under the same scrutiny as himself. "Why don't you take girls home Mycroft?"

Mycroft choked on his drink. His own face became rather florid matching the shade of his hair. He thumped the glass down, loosening his necktie. Sherlock smiled despite himself.

"Yes, Mycroft, why don't you take girls home?" Sherlock probed.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Uh—ahem, we—no. We're not going to do this here." It was the first time Vynce had ever seen him flustered.

Mycroft didn't want to talk about girls. There was a reason he didn't take them home. He didn't need them. Most men hunted for a woman to start their lives…maybe settle down and have a family. Mycroft didn't need that. He had a life already. Besides, most woman passed him by. With his receding hairline and superior job they always mistook him as being older than what he was. Not to mention, Vyncentte. People sometimes thought he was a single father whenever they saw the two of them together. Some women thought he was a widower. Maybe it was the twin golden bands he sometimes wore on his hands. To others, Mycroft had baggage, baggage they didn't want. But it was baggage Mycroft didn't want to get rid of. His brothers were far more important to him than any woman could be.

"Women aren't interested in me," he finally said. "Let's leave it at that." He picked his fork back up. "So who is she, Vynce?"

Vyncentte felt the attention shift back to him. "Brenn."

"How fitting…" Sherlock mused disdainfully. The others ignored him.

"So the question is… are you going to go back to the café?" Mycroft inquired.

Vyncentte thought about it. His brothers seemed fine without girls but there was something within him that didn't want that sort of seclusion. "I think so."

* * *

A week later Vynce returned to the coffee shop he had walked into days previously. Much to his luck, Brenn was working the counter. He approached the counter with more courage than he had had the last time.

"Hey," he won her attention with a word, and she looked up from the counter she had been wiping down. Her face was dazed for a second but then cleared as she recognized him.

"Hey, it's Mister Five-Pounds." Brenn smiled. "Back again?"

Vynce returned her smile, "Yeah."

"Black, two sugars, huh?" she reached for a mug.

"Sure," he agreed only to prolong the conversation. "This is a nice place," he added, commenting about the café.

"You think so?" Brenn poured hot liquid into the cup she had picked up. "My aunt owns it. It's the only reason I'm able to work here. Most places wouldn't hire me."

"Why not?" Vynce thought she was awfully professional…good at her job.

"Age." Brenn laughed. "Most places want you to at least be fifteen. I turn fourteen in five weeks."

So she wasn't older than him. He would be turning fourteen in a few months. Close enough. He wondered briefly what it would be like to have a job of his own. It was unnecessary, he had access to money, but something about working to earn something appealed to him.

She placed the coffee in front of him. "One-fifty."

He dug in his pocked for the price and pulled out a crinkled bill. He sighed when he saw the number on it. "All I have is a ten-pound note."

"Hopefully you take some of the change this time." She laughed, ringing in the order. "I felt like I was robbing you blind last time." Brenn held out the total back to him. He didn't take it all, leaving three pounds in her hand to tip her. She pushed the mug towards him.

"Um-" He stalled, not turning around to find a seat in the room. "I actually came by to see you."

Brenn tilted her head. "Me?"

"Yeah—you." Would it be dorky to say he had been able to stop thinking about her? Probably. He restrained himself.

"Why did you want to see me?" Brenn asked playfully suspicious.

Vynce smiled. "Wondering if you like the cinema?"

She smiled. "I'm off at four."


	12. A Very Holmes Christmas

_Hello all!  
I very, very sorry for the delay in posting. College has started and I'm trying to juggle school and still do the things I love to do. This chapter takes place right after "Snow Day" for anyone who may be confused. I'll still take ideas from anyone. It's really fun to write for others and see the reaction. Thank you all for your continued support. :)_

_ V. Jenkins_

Vyncentte succeeded in getting Sherlock to agree to come home for Christmas, and two days before the holiday he arrived at the Holmes estate. Vynce ran outside to meet him, forgetting to put on a coat and running out in the cold with bare arms. Sherlock climbed out from the cab, his great army overcoat billowing behind him in the wind, a tattered grey scarf lazily looped around his neck.

"Hello, Vynce." He greeted his brother as Vynce ran to the cab from the front door.

"Hey," Vynce smiled. "You actually came." He tugged Sherlock's suitcase from his hand and carried to the house himself. Sherlock stalked after him, thrusting his hands into his coat's deep pockets.

"I came." He agreed. "But I don't know at all why." His grey eyes roved over the building that had been his childhood home. His expression was one of slight distaste.

"Christmas, stupid." Vynce countered opening the door and letting Sherlock pass through before entering himself. He dropped the suitcase on the floor of the entrance hall.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, shrugging off his coat. "Why on earth are we making such a fuss about it this year?"

Vyncentte didn't know how to explain it to him. How it was Mycroft's idea. Sort of. Vynce was the one who had wanted him here, but Mycroft was the one who wanted to actually celebrate Christmas this year. How it mattered to both of them that the holiday was acknowledged and time was spent with family. Sentiment. Sherlock wouldn't have understood. Luckily he took Vynce's silence as a suitable answer and strode farther into the hall.

Vyncentte noticed his brother's wardrobe had changed since the last time he had seen him. Sherlock wore a suit coat now. Black. And a dress shirt. No tie though. Black pants and shoes. He looked grown up. The suit made him different than how Mycroft always looked but somehow it fitted his brother perfectly. It accentuated his penetrating eyes and piercing cheekbones.

"So… where is the jailer?" Sherlock asked, voice low and foreboding.

"Jailer?" Vynce was lost for a second. "Oh. Mycroft—um. He's at work still."

"Good."

Vynce didn't know how to respond to this. He wondered if perhaps it was a mistake to want his older brothers together in the same house again. Sherlock didn't seem to understand the difference in Mycroft since he had left. Or, as Vynce saw it, what was lying underneath all this time.

"He'll be home all day tomorrow though," Vynce added. "He took the day off from the office."

"Lovely." Sherlock's voice was thick with sarcasm. "How did you get him on the whole Christmas bandwagon?"

"I didn't. It was his idea."

Sherlock turned away from him. "I didn't know he was searching so hard for a reason to justify stuffing his face." He picked up his luggage, taking his coat in hand.

Vynce regarded him somewhat coldly, not liking his demeanor so far. "You're sleeping in your old room." He informed Sherlock. "I'll let you alone to put your stuff away." Leaving Sherlock in the hall, Vynce wandered to a different place in the house wondering how the week was going to end.

* * *

Mycroft came home on time rescuing Vyncentte from his unsettled state. One glance at his little brother's face told him something was wrong.

"What's going on, Vynce?" He asked kindly when he found the boy in one of the upstairs rooms alone. To Vynce, Mycroft didn't look as haggard as he usually looked when coming home from work. In fact, he looked rather relaxed. Vynce's heart sunk a little. Mycroft really was looking forward to the holiday.

Vynce remained quiet. He didn't want to bother Mycroft at all with his worries. Unfortunately, Mycroft wouldn't let him be. Crossing the room, Mycroft approached where Vyncentte was sitting and found a place for himself to be seated.

"What's wrong?" Mycroft asked again, unbuttoning his suit coat and shrugging it off. He laid it across the back of a chair.

"Nothing's wrong," Vynce sighed.

"Doesn't seem like it."

"Um—well," Vynce smiled weakly. "Sherlock's home." No other explanation was necessary.

Mycroft chuckled softly. "How bad is it?"

"Not bad…" Vynce corrected him. "Same old Sherlock. I just—don't want all week to be one huge contest of 'who can create the best insult' or 'who can be the most sarcastic'."

"It won't be." Mycroft promised him.

"How do you know?"

"Because we won't let it come to that." Mycroft gave him a thin smile. "Sherlock will try. He'll stab with words and lash out, but when his attacks are ignored he'll lose interest."

"Or at least get the idea." Vynce added Mycroft's silent thought for him. "You're just going to ignore anything you don't like?"

"I think I'm adult enough to do that." Mycroft commented. "Granted, I usually like to try to outwit him. But I think I can restrain myself…at least for the holiday." He stood up from where he'd sat. "We'll fix him between the two of us." He added.

Somehow, Vynce believed him.

* * *

They gathered at the dinner table that night. Eileen had prepared a meal to match the spirit of festivity that had seemed to enshroud the household. Sherlock took one look at the spread and smirked.

"How's the diet Mycroft?" He asked sliding a chair out and lowering himself in it.

Mycroft remained silent, sitting at his usual seat at the head of the table. He took Sherlock's comment in stride, choosing to ignore it and instead gave Vyncentte a wink when their brother was not looking.

Sherlock was a bit irritated by not getting a reaction from Mycroft.

"Sensitive are we?" Sherlock inquired. "Putting on weight?" Still no reaction. Vyncentte even seemed not to hear him.

"How was your day Vyncentte?" Mycroft asked, changing the subject.

Vynce was taken off-guard for a second, but recovered marvelously. "Um—fine. Yours?"

"Well, thank you." Mycroft placed a dish back on the table. "Yours, Sherlock?"

Sherlock glared at him for second before answering. "Tolerable."

"Mm, really? Good, good. And the ride over?"

"Refreshing…" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Wonderful to hear." Mycroft kept the comment sincere. "We are both so very glad that you could make it."

Sherlock wondered what his brother's motives were. The friendly, engaging manner he was being greeted with was sickening. He was seeking a confrontation and his wish wasn't being granted, making his efforts seem useless and tiring. Frowning, he concentrated on his dinner in front of him, abandoning his attempts.

A few minutes ticked on and Mycroft made polite conversation with Vyncentte, letting Sherlock stew in his thoughts. Dinner went on, each brother becoming more comfortable with the circumstances. Vynce relaxed, even partaking in the food a bit instead of pushing it around his plate. Mycroft talked with renewed energy, and even Sherlock's face relaxed into a state of indifference instead of bitter malice.

"Are you okay with that Sherlock?" Mycroft interrupted his reverie.

"Mmh, what?" Sherlock had missed where the conversation had gone.

Mycroft did him a favor and backtracked. "I had promised Vyncentte he could go stay in London with you when I have to leave for France in February. It will be a few weeks. I was just asking if you were okay with it."

Sherlock thought about having Vyncentte to himself for an elongated amount of time. "Of course I'm fine with it."

"Then it's all set." Mycroft finalized the plans. "We'll figure out the details when the time gets closer." He took the napkin from his lap and placed it on his plate. Sherlock and Vynce had already finished their meals. "I wish you both goodnight…I'll allow you two the night off from entertaining me." Mycroft rose, ready to retire to the study. He wanted to give Sherlock and Vynce time alone.

"You're going?" Vynce asked as he saw Mycroft preparing to leave.

"We'll save tomorrow for any special occasions, shouldn't we?" Mycroft smiled slightly. "Tonight, let's simply cohabitate peacefully with each other."

Sherlock glanced towards Vynce as their brother's figure left the room. "He's certainly changed."

Vynce shrugged. "He's behaving civilly. Nothing new."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "Come now. You've done something rather strange to him."

"No, I haven't."

"Yes, you have." Sherlock countered. "Unconsciously of course." He added.

Vyncentte simply looked at him in silence. Sherlock rose from his chair. "I'll be in my room." He said curtly, brushing past where his brother sat and out of the room. Vynce reflected on what had happened with in the last couple hours. It could have been worse…much worse. In some strange way tonight was a victory for everyone in the household. Vyncentte most of all.

* * *

The next day was the day before Christmas, and the household awoke at its own leisure. It was eleven before all members were conscious that the others were up and active. And, within time, a strange force helped gravitate them together.

Mycroft had situated himself in the first floor parlor. Hours after, Sherlock had drifted in, dressed and refreshed from a night's sleep. Wordlessly, he seated himself in a chair on the opposite side the room. He took out the periodicals he had had tucked underneath his arm. The London Times, The Daily Mail, The Echo. He took one and unfolded it, burying his nose in the contents trying to find the most interest worthy stories.

"You're on holiday, Sherlock." Mycroft commented, observing his actions from across the room. "Must you really read the papers?"

"You read them daily." Sherlock answered, noticing Mycroft held one in his own hands. "Why shouldn't I?"

Mycroft didn't push it any further, returning instead to his own pages. About a half hour later, Eileen bustled into the room, Vynce trailing hesitantly on her heels.

"In here should do nicely, shouldn't it, dear." She scanned the room, allotted a brief distasteful look at Sherlock, whom she never really liked. Sherlock returned it, until Vynce managed to steer Eileen's attention away from his brother.

"Um—I guess." Vynce was completely confused with what Eileen was trying to do.

"Wonderful." Eileen smiled at him. "It's downstairs. Come help me move it in here."

"Why are we putting a tree in the house again?" Mycroft and Sherlock caught Vynce's question as he left the room with Eileen. They both exchanged similar looks of bewilderment.

"Because that's what people do when Christmas comes around." Eileen voice echoed down the hallway.

A tree? Sherlock mouthed. Mycroft merely shrugged. Eileen could do what she wanted. Years of service had earned his respect for her. Moments later, Eileen re-entered carrying a pine tree with Vynce helping her and struggling under most of the load. They set it up in a stand, fastening the metal screws to support the trunk.

Eileen brushed her hands off on her apron. "Right, now time for decorations. I've got a box in my car Vynce if you don't mind fetching it." Vynce started for the door. "Wear a coat!" she called after. Vynce returned with the box, sans coat much to Eileen's dismay, and placed the box on the floor beside her feet.

"I told you to put on a jacket." She stated pointedly.

"I hate jackets." Vynce answered bluntly. "Besides, it's like three seconds of being outside… what's all the fuss? And…" he added, "I actually wore shoes this time, so be a little bit happy now, eh?"

Sherlock snickered quietly in his corner, and Mycroft had to find a way to hide the amusement that was steadily creeping into his body. The picture of their brother wandering outside barefooted on the snowy ground was entertaining. Sadly enough though, it was a possibility. Vynce often forget to put anything on his feet before leaving the house… summer and winter alike.

"You boys think that funny, now?" Eileen asked the two elder Holmes. "Well, you can help him." She gestured to the box. "I have work to do in the kitchens, so I kindly thank you for volunteering." Eileen exited the room, in her fashion, and made way to the kitchens down below.

Neither of the men moved from their chairs. Curiously, Vynce opened the box that he had brought in and studied what was inside. It was full of some electrical cords and shiny metal things that were round or oval. He didn't quite know what they were or what to do.

Mycroft picked up on his confused expression, with a slight chuckle. He knew what Eileen was trying to do. He himself had seen Christmas trees on the boulevards of London, with their brilliant lights and shining ornaments. From what he understood, it was a German tradition. No German blood ran in their veins, but the prospect of the Christmas tree somehow felt right to him. Mycroft rose from his chair and approached Vyncentte.

"Is Eileen crazy?" Vynce asked, pointing at the box. "She wants to decorate a tree with this stuff."

"It's a Christmas tree, and she's right… that's what people do around Christmas time." Mycroft informed him.

"We've never done it before…" Vynce answered quietly.

"It doesn't mean we can't." Mycroft told him, bending down slightly to examine the contents of the box.

Sherlock looked on from the perimeter, a glint of jealousy evident in his eye. He never remembered a time when Mycroft acted like this, especially when he was growing up. The special comradeship that Mycroft and Vynce now seemed to share made him feel like an outsider in the house.

Vynce noticed. Shuffling uncomfortable on his feet and he shoved his hands in his pockets. It felt rude to not involve Sherlock, yet it was an activity Sherlock wouldn't readily comply to do.

Mycroft solved the difficulty himself. He pulled out one of the strings of lights from the box. "Sherlock why don't you help with this? Vynce isn't really as tall as you."

Vynce didn't mind his height being degraded if it worked.

"He could use a chair." Sherlock suggested, turning a page of his newspaper.

"Absolutely not." Mycroft countered. "Our furniture will not come in contact with human feet." He held out the lights towards Sherlock. His hand remained outstretched for several seconds before Sherlock's thin hand wrapped around cords. Wordlessly, he stood up and unraveled the object in his hands.

"Where's the outlet?" Sherlock didn't even know if he had ever been in this certain room before today.

* * *

They stayed in the parlor for most of the day. Not always talking, but doing whatever struck their fancy. Vynce pulled out the chess board and played a silent match with Sherlock. It had been years since they had sat down together at chess, but the familiarity of the situation was something that they would never forget over time.

Sherlock won. Twice. And got tired of the game. He surrendered his spot to Mycroft, who had become bored with the book he had been laboring through as his brothers played. Sherlock was fascinated with the fact that Mycroft was willing to play. It seemed as if the event had happened before, for both Vynce and he looked comfortable on either side of the board.

"You did that on purpose." Mycroft said suddenly after capturing Vynce's rook.

"Yeah." Vynce fingered a pawn and moved it forward.

"But you've gained no benefit from it." Mycroft commented, all the sudden becoming suspicious. He scanned the board and thought about Vynce's last couple of moves. "You're losing on purpose."

"No I'm not." Vynce's face flushed betraying his lie.

"Start over." Mycroft commanded, picking up some the captured pieces that had been set on the sideline. "I'm too old for you to be taking it easy on me."

"And I demand a rematch afterwards." Sherlock cool voice drifted over to their table. He had been looking out the window in calm contemplation, listening in on what was being said over the game. "In reflection, I believe I was also a victim to his generosity."

* * *

Dinner that night was as much of an event as it had been the previous night, if only lacking the sarcastic taunts about Mycroft's weight from Sherlock. A sort of truce had formed between them in the last twenty-four hours. Civility had become a rule for each man, and Vyncentte felt the strange sort of tolerance that each held for the other.

Evening found them once again in the parlor. The tree cloaked in decorative festivity was illuminated in its designated corner and the three brothers sat down by the warm fire. The two oddly wrapped bundles under the tree did not go unnoticed.

"What's that?" Sherlock asked, thoroughly alarmed by the sight.

"They're mine." Vynce answered. "Eileen told me people put presents underneath the tree."

"I wasn't told we were doing gifts this year," Sherlock said quietly. "I haven't brought anything."

"You brought yourself and that's all I wanted." Vynce shifted his position on the couch he had perched himself on, tucking in his legs and pressing himself in the corner of the arm and the back.

"Still…" Sherlock collapsed in a chair, folding his hands in comfort. It felt wrong to receive something from Vynce and to not give anything in return.

Mycroft spoke from his own position by the fire. "He'll still get something, Sherlock." He had guessed what his brother was thinking. He'd thoroughly prepared for the evening. Rising from the chair, he exited the room for a brief moment bringing back two parcels upon his return.

He laid them on the table that was in the general vicinity of their seats. One for each brother. Labeled and wrapped. Vynce recognized Anthea's handwriting on the tags. He got up from the couch and retrieved the packages he had placed under the tree earlier that evening and brought them to the table. They were by far not wrapped to the quality that Anthea's skill had been able to produce, but the gifts were covered, which was all that mattered.

A wordless conversation ensued between Sherlock and Mycroft. Vyncentte first… Sherlock's eyes flashed the message towards his brother. Mycroft complied, his hand gravitating towards the box where Vyncentte's named had be written with flourish. He handed it to his youngest brother.

"Happy Christmas, Vynce."

"Happy Christmas yourself." Vynce felt that he really didn't need any presents. But Mycroft wanted to give, not receive, so the box found its way to his hands anyway. It was a deep box, filled with all sorts of things. A new sketch pad, some pencils, charcoal, and pens. A book on chess strategy and some volumes of other classics Vynce liked. Best of all though was lying on the bottom of the box. An electronic tablet.

It was something he had never thought about owning, but as it presented itself he realized he liked the idea.

"It's something I've seen some people your age really into." Mycroft said. "Anthea agreed it was a good idea."

"Thank you very much." Vynce replied.

"If it's not really something you're into, we can figure something else out." Mycroft offered. The tablet had been a risk…something he wasn't sure about getting.

"No, no. I really, really do like it." Vynce assured him. "It's great."

Mycroft had gotten Sherlock a book of remedies for poisons. He knew how much his brother dabbled in the dangerous concoctions and wanted him to have a reference in case anything went wrong. Plus it gave Sherlock something to do chemically when he was bored. It was an impersonal gift, yet it was something.

Vynce gave both of his brothers gifts at the same time. Both men pulled the paper from the objects, turning the objects in their hands. Vyncentte had gotten Mycroft a brand new pocket watch, and Mycroft hid a smile that came to his lips when the small, round, metal object fell into his palm. He could finally retire the only one he owned, and sometimes wished he didn't. His old watch belonged to their father, something that was found in the chests after the man's death. Yet, it always made him uncomfortable when he flicked it open and was faced with his father's name engraved in the metal.

As he opened the new watch, he realized Vynce had personalized it for him. On the inside face of the bronze was:

**_Mycroft A. Holmes_**

He clicked it shut, his thumb brushing the metal outer face in admiration. It was a good piece, and he treasured it immediately.

As the paper fell away Sherlock realized what he held in his hands was a scarf. It was a deep, dark blue, its fabric soft in his hands. It was a simple gift, meant to replace his old ragged scarf from his school days. The texture felt nice as his hands brushed against it, and Sherlock was glad Vyncentte had not spent a ridiculous amount of money for his benefit.

"Thank you, Vynce" His voice was low, in that deep dark register that he only spoke in every so often.

"Yes, Vyncentte," Mycroft added his own words. "Thank you very much."

It was the first and only happy Christmas the Holmes mansion had ever known.


	13. The House on the Top of the Hill--nbyimp

_Hello all. _

_This came as a suggestion from __**nobodyimportant. **__Vynce gets into some trouble with bullies. Caution... there is violence involved and I don't condone__** any**__ bullying towards others who are different then the rest of the crowd. _

_Please Enjoy and review!_

_V. Jenkins_

The town that surrounded the area around the Holmes estate was one that enjoyed the pleasures of town gossip. The Holmes family had always been withdrawn and isolated since the day they decided to settle on their land. Nothing gave the townspeople more pleasures than guessing the secrets of what laid behind the gates that separated the grounds from the rest of the world. No reals facts were known about the Holmes family. Only that years ago there were some deaths in the house. Two coffins went into the gates and two coffins went out. No one knew for sure who had died and who had remained. Just that life had seemed to go on without interruption and the Holmes remained quiet and solitary.

The only known fact was that the Holmeses were rich. Large home, acres of land, and expensive cars that drove in and out of the gates on a daily basis. Whatever had happened years ago, the Holmeses were still as wealthy and growing ever more profitable with time. It was something that caused some variety of jealousy among others. And there was no outlet for this jealousy besides creating rumors and lies to slander the Holmes name.

No outlet at all except the day Mycroft decided that the shops in the small town that surround them could suffice for his needs for the day. He had an awful long week and did not want to run all the way to London for some errands that had to be done. Vyncentte agreed to go with him when he asked.

"Why don't we just walk?" Vynce asked him once he realized his brother had had a car readied for their excursion.

Mycroft shrugged. He didn't feel up to 'legwork' this evening. "Stanley needs to earn his wage." He responded indifferently, making up an excuse on the spot before walking out of the room.

Since he had already promised, Vyncentte had no other choice but to follow. All the same, he'd wished they would take a less inconspicuous car to town when he saw the Aston Martin parked in the drive way. But it was Mycroft's favorite, and he always used it when he got the chance.

The drive took less than even Mycroft had expected. It was the shortest car ride he had experienced in a long time. In fact, he was rather shocked when Stan pulled up to the curb before his destination only minutes after they had entered the interior of the car. They got out of the car.

"You can wait outside if you want, Vynce." Mycroft offered. "I won't be very long."

"Sure." Vynce leaned against the side of the car and watched his brother disappear into the store. He would enjoy the few moments of solitude outside in the evening air. He gazed around himself taking in the sights. He'd never really been into town for any longer amount of time. They usually just drove straight through it on their way to London, never bothering to stop.

It shocked him really that he didn't know much about the town his house was in. Perhaps he should have traveled there more on his bike, but the only place he really ever went that wasn't the grounds of the Holmes estate was the Collins house. But ever since Charlie had moved, Vynce didn't have much motivation to leave the grounds anymore. He spent most of his days at the house when he didn't travel to London for a daytrip.

The town was nice though, Vynce reflected as he studied the buildings. They had stopped at a small main strip of storefronts. Not as impressive as London, but the scene was quaint and conveniently located.

He observed figures approaching in the distance. Three persons walking down the sidewalks towards where he stood. As they got closer, Vynce realized they were boys his own age.

"Hey," Vynce greeted them, his confidence buckling slightly. He wasn't very good with strangers. Yet, it never hurt to try and engage himself with the outside world.

They boys stopped, their intention to just walk by and ignore him vanishing as one of them recognized the car he was standing by. He elbowed his comrades, nodding pointedly towards the vehicle. Vynce deduced that he must be the unspoken leader of the group.

"Well isn't this a posh little thing, boys?" the leader circled around the car bringing himself to a stop in front of Vyncentte and smirking. His friends laughed behind him. He wasn't talking about the car.

Vynce's face flushed. He knew he was being made fun of.

"What's the matter, little toff? Too shy for words?" his bully stepped closer to him. "Don't worry, I don't need an introduction," his voice became quieter but still menacing, "You're one of those freaks from up on the hill."

Vyncentte felt trapped between the car behind him and the boys that now formed a semi-circle in front of him.

"Freak," one of the others echoed quietly from the side.

The leader's eyes devoured the image of the car behind Vyncentte. A jealous gleam sparkled in his cold eyes. "You're daddy's rich, isn't he?"

His words made Vyncentte even more embarrassed. How many times in his life would people mistaken his brother for his father?

"His daddy's not here right now." One of the others grinned.

So true, Vynce thought, my dad's six feet under ground in a tomb. He had never been there for him. Mycroft wasn't there. Stan had wandered off to get a car part. Vynce was alone. A deep knotted feeling in his stomach told him to try to get away. But it was impossible with the other three closing in on the space around him.

"That's right," the leader laughed softly. "Daddy's not here, freak."

"You're right," Vynce agreed. Was his voice really shaking? He hated how weak that made him look. "My dad's dead."

The bully grimaced. "You'll be too." He promised, cracking his knuckles. "Grab him."

At the command the other two seized Vynce by the arms and forcefully thrust him back into the wall of the car. The impact hurt, bruising his back. He struggled against the strength of his attackers only to be pinned down harder.

"You know what the problem with you rich people is?" the ringleader pulled back his arm landing a heavy punch on Vynce's cheekbone. Vynce's head snapped back, painfully hitting the hard metal of the car. A bloody taste filled his mouth. He had bitten his tongue by accident due to the force of the assault "You all think you're so much better than the rest of us." Another punch, this time to the stomach knocking the air out of Vynce. He gasped, trying to gulp in air to substitute what he had lost.

His nemesis found joy in his pain. "You hid away in your precious little house, never bothering to show your face to those who you think as inferior." One of his hands wrapped around his throat, tightening threateningly around its circumference. "The world wouldn't miss you, I'm sure of it." He brought his knee up jammed it in Vynce's rib cage a couple of times.

Vynce's body began to sag in the grip of the other two boys. He only remained on his feet because they wouldn't let his body fall to the ground. He attacker wound up for another blow, his fist smashing into Vynce's skull sending lightning flashes of pain through his mind.

"What's going on?" Stan rushed up to the scene in a panic. The boys released their grip on Vynce letting him collapse, the impact of hitting the ground jarring through his bruised body. "I'll call the police!" Stan threatened trying to apprehend the other boys. The trio darted away from the car running into the night.

The noise of the commotion brought Mycroft outside. The sight of Vynce on the ground, a bit of blood trickling from his mouth, alarmed him greatly.

"Vynce!" he knelt on the ground next to his brother.

Vynce's face contorted in humility. He was weak. Able to be beaten without any effort. Frustration welled inside of him, and he pushed Mycroft's hand away in anger. "I'm fine." He muttered bitterly, pushing himself up and regained his feet.

"Vyncentte…"

"Leave it." Vynce pushed his way to the car, tearing the door open and locking himself inside. Stan and Mycroft stood outside.

"What happened, Stanley?" Mycroft asked.

"I dunno, Mr. Holmes," Stan confessed. "I was coming back from the car shop with my pieces and poor Vynce there was getting hammered by these three guys. I start yelling and they get chased off."

Mycroft glanced towards the car, a feeling of deep melancholy gripping his body. He had wanted this never to happen. It's why he had never sent Vyncentte off to boarding school. Mycroft had spent his time at prep school bullied and taunted by others. He knew the same had happened to Sherlock as well, although his brother would never admit it to him. Mycroft had taken quiet actions to try to ease Sherlock's pain. But his brother always lashed out at him whenever he suspected his involvement.

This thought reminded him of what had happened moments beforehand. Vyncentte had tersely pushed him away. A first in a while, and Mycroft didn't like that. He wished Vynce hadn't been so abrupt to brush him off. Opening the car door, Mycroft waved for Stan to take the driver's seat before getting in himself.

The car started, pulling away from the curb and turning towards the direction of the Holmes estate.

"Vynce,"

"I said I'm fine."

Mycroft stared at him. A bruise was already forming on one of his brother's cheekbones making it look more hollow than it really was. There was dried blood on his lip.

"You don't look fine." Mycroft commented on his brother's appearance. He reached over to examine his brother's face only to have Vyncentte push his hand away.

"Jesus, Mycroft! Just stop okay?" Vynce turned away to look out the window, trying to hide his injuries. Mycroft resigned himself to looking out the opposite window. He hid his own feelings, effortlessly putting on a mask of indifference. It was reflected back to him by the window glass, and he hated to see how cold it looked. He couldn't help it. It's what he was left with.

* * *

As soon as they got to the house Vyncentte ducked out of the car and bee-lined to the door. Mycroft watched him disappear, and even though it felt wrong, he realized Vynce was running away.

Alone in the study, Mycroft poured himself a glass of brandy, something he hadn't done in a while. He was losing himself in memories, memories of his schooldays at St. Prufrock's. The loneliness that always had plagued him in those hallways began to come back to him. Others had stayed away and when they had met him, they had teased him. He had found ways to stop it. Ways to manipulate individuals and form ways of keeping his bullies at bay. Mycroft had created an underground network to ward off the unwanted cruel attentions of his aggressors. He had survived.

When Sherlock went off to school, Mycroft had convinced his parents to send his brother to St. Xavier's instead of St. Prufrock's. He had hoped Sherlock would not be subject to the same torture he had received from his peers. When their parents were gone, and Sherlock left for the school year, Mycroft made it his business to make sure his brother was left alone at prep school. Of course Sherlock had figured it out, vehemently yelling at Mycroft to stay away from his affairs. Sherlock took on the bullies himself. He didn't win… but he survived.

So, when the time came that Vyncentte was old enough to attend a boarding school, Mycroft had a great deal on his mind. Ultimately, it was his decision. Should Vyncentte leave the Holmes estate and live at a school far away from his brother and any comfort of home? Or should he stay, stay where Mycroft could see him every day and know he was safe? Mycroft didn't want Vynce to get hurt. Didn't want Vynce to have to face the cruelty of the outside world. Mycroft kept him home. The main reason to keep him away from the fate that had been both Mycroft's and Sherlock's, but for selfish reasons as well. He didn't want to give Vyncentte up. Didn't want to lose any of the time he had left.

Vynce wasn't even fazed. He had started his academic career homeschooled. The fact that he was to continue it the same way was logical. Mycroft didn't even let him know he had contemplated sending off to school. He gave his brother textbooks instead. Anything he wanted or peaked his interest. Mycroft made sure the resources were there, and supplied them in ready haste.

This incident caught him off-guard. He hadn't been ready for it. Hadn't predicted that it would come. Now it had happened, he didn't know how to deal with it. Mycroft rose and found his phone. He began to dial and stopped. No, if he wanted a response he'd have to do it differently. Opening a new text message he began:

**Please call Vyncentte**

**M. Holmes**

** Why?**

**SH**

** He got in a little trouble in town.**

** M. Holmes**

**About time. I had hoped he had a little rebel spirit in him.**

** SH**

** Vynce didn't do anything wrong.**

** M. Holmes**

**Then define 'trouble'**

** SH**

** St. Xaiver trouble**

** M. Holmes**

** Rubbish. What do you mean?**

** SH**

** You know exactly what I mean**

** M. Holmes**

** He doesn't even go to school. There's no reason he could be victim.**

** SH**

**Still he's upstairs with bruises and blood on his face.**

** M. Holmes**

There was no response after that. Mycroft sat back and waited.

* * *

Vynce laid on the bed, mind numb and body sore. He felt degraded, weak, and horrible. Why did this happen? He hadn't done anything to those guys, and yet those guys thought they were justified to beat the crap out of him. For what? Riding in a luxury car.

He never felt rich in his life… in fact he was pretty modest. Vynce had never took the money for granted, never flaunted it on purpose. Not intentionally. If he ever overpaid, it was with good intentions, that the money was going to a place where it was needed. He didn't like that the family had an over excess of funds. The house was too large, the cars were too shiny and new. The only thing Vyncentte liked was how large the grounds were. He could slip in the dense nature and find peace and relaxation. He could forget about the money there.

Across the room, his mobile went off. A real ringtone, not his text alert. Groaning, Vynce eased himself of the bed and went to retrieve it. Sherlock was calling him. His brother never called. He texted. Suspicious, Vynce answered it.

"Hello?"

"Mycroft said you got yourself into a spot of trouble." Sherlock didn't even pretend to hide the fact Mycroft was behind this phone call.

Vynce frowned. It hurt the side of his face. "Hello, Sherlock."

"Well?" His brother pried for more information.

Vynce sighed. "Fine. Yes, I was the recipient of a few punches and a knee to the rib cage."

"So what are you going to do?"

"Do?"

"Yes. What are you going to do?"

Vynce was confused. "I'm not sure. Why do I have to do something?"

Sherlock's voice was distant over the phone, but Vyncentte felt comforted to hear his voice instead of reading impersonal text messages. "You can't just sit there and take it."

Vynce lost his patience. "Why do you act like you know everything that's going on here?"

A slight beat of silence. "Because I do."

"What?"

"Saint Xavier's." Sherlock cut him off.

"Saint-what?"

"Don't make me say it again, you know precisely what I mean. I went to school there."

"Yeah, I know."

"I didn't exactly have friends."

"I just thought you decided you didn't need any."

"I didn't. I just couldn't choose whether or not I needed enemies."

"You got bullied?"

"Part of being a Holmes, I suppose. Mycroft went through it too. Eight years of hell."

Vynce let the information sink in. "What did they do?"

"They called me 'freak' and 'creep'. Hated me for my brains. Things got physical often."

"What about Mycroft?"

"They called him 'fat'." Even Vyncentte could feel the smile on the other side of the line. Sherlock often used that point as leverage. Their eldest brother was very sensitive about his weight, constantly on and off diets.

"What did you do to stop it?"

"I suffered through it, until my second to last year. The summer before I snuck into town and attended judo classes. I learned how to fight. It didn't stop their words, but they'd left me alone after I could fight back fair."

"You know judo?"

"Don't act so surprised."

Somehow, Vynce realized he wasn't. "So you're saying…?"

"Find something to give you an upper hand. Something to help you get in control again."

"What about right now."

"I suggest ice." Sherlock advised. "And get the blood off your face. It's alarming Mycroft."

"Okay…"

They hung up and Vyncentte looked in the mirror. The places on his face where he had been punched had faded to a deep, tender grey. He lifted his shirt. Purple and black blotches spread up his side. Even gently lying his hand on their surface made him wince in pain. Ice sounded like a good idea right now. A really good idea.

He looped downstairs and quietly got it himself. And he remembered to wipe the blood off too. He hadn't realized Mycroft could see it.

* * *

Vynce had chosen boxing. Between the feet movements and weapons, judo seemed too complicated. It would take time to learn. Boxing seemed more promising. He'd found a small joint in lower London that would take him in. Fee paid and equipment borrowed, Vynce attended weekly sessions at the gym. It was his secret. He didn't tell Mycroft or Eileen. The only one he had hinted about the boxing to was Sherlock, since it was his advice that he was acting upon.

It had been hard at first. Vynce had to convince the man at the club to take him on as a student.

"Sorry, kid," the man had barely looked at him. "You're a little small and I don't teach teenagers."

"I have the money if that's what you're worried about." Vynce flashed him the pounds he had taken earlier that day.

"It's not a question about money, punk. I don't want you getting hurt." The man crossed his arms. "We do a lot with bags and stuff, but we spar here too. I can't put you up against my men without you getting the crap kicked out of you."

"I'm here so I don't get the crap kicked out of me." Vynce snapped. "I'll go somewhere else if that's the only thing I can do."

The guy studied him, sizing him up. The kid had bruises on his face, faded but still evident. But he also recognized a spirited glint in the boy's eyes and liked it.

"What's your name, kid?"

"Vyncentte."

"Benjamin."

Vynce went to hand the pound notes to the man, but Ben shoved his hands in his pockets.

"I don't want your money, buddy, but I'll take you on." Ben promised him. "Come upstairs, we'll see what you know."

Benjamin taught him how to punch that day. The next day he showed him some combos. Vynce didn't have a lot of muscle at all. Ben started having him lift some weights. By this time, Vyncentte was going to London every afternoon. He was getting good too. Ben paired him up with his next smallest guy and set them up in the sparring ring.

"Let's see what you got, kiddo!" he clapped in the side of the rink.

Vynce won. Barely. He got a good clip on the side of the head, but gloved hands felt a lot better than bare knuckles. Benjamin slapped him on the back good-naturedly when he stepped out of the ring.

"That a way, man. Good hook, and wow your left-hand is coming along fine."

"Thanks, Ben."

"Uh-huh. I see you tomorrow, kid."

"Yeah," Vynce grinned. "See you tomorrow."

Downstairs in the locker room Vynce put away his stuff away in a banged up locker that Ben had given him. He took his backpack from the locker, pulling out his street shoes and putting them on. Grabbing his hooded sweatshirt, he walked out the lower door and unto the streets of London.

Walking to the subway, Vynce got this strange feeling his was being followed. Every time he looked over shoulder though the street was empty behind him. No one was in sight. The feeling didn't go away and it finally got to the point where he decided to round the corner and hid in waiting by the wall.

Someone was in fact following him and mere seconds later Vynce spun from the crevice he had been looming in and took a blind punch at the man.

"Umph!" the man groaned, taking the punch in the gut."Oh god. Vyncentte!"

"Mycroft?" Vyncentte stood there shocked. "Mycroft?"

"Yes, Mycroft." His brother stood up straight again, rubbing his side.

Vynce felt a sudden rush of regret fly over him. "Sorry, I thought someone was following me, and you know—it's London…. Lower London—and yeah…" he voice trailed off. "Well, technically you were following me. Why? Why were you following me?"

Mycroft adjusted his coat. "You're off to London every day. Last time I had a brother do that I realized he had a drug problem."

"I'm not on drugs." Vynce responded quickly.

"Is that a new bruise?" Mycroft pointed to where his opponent had clipped him early today.

"No. Old one. Still healing." Vynce lied smoothly. It was reaction, not even a thought anymore.

"Vynce, I have somewhat of a photographic memory. That's new. And how on earth did you learn to punch like that?" The place where Vyncentte's blow had landed still hurt. .

Vynce remained quiet. The sounds of London filled the air between them.

"I don't like this, Vynce." Mycroft's voice was soft. "This bridge between us. So much distance. I've lost you."

His last statement hung in the air, thick between them.

"Let's go home, Vynce," Mycroft spoke, "Let's leave London behind for a while. Please?"

Vynce thought of Ben and the club and all he'd learned. For the first time in his life he felt strong and confident and independent. It was a high now. Something hard to give up.

"I-uh. I'm sorry Mycroft… I just-" It was so hard to explain to him. Sherlock knew the feelings, knew the vibe that came with fighting back. He needed to fight back. He just couldn't stay passive anymore. "I need to keep coming here, Mycroft."

"What's here that needs you?" Mycroft probed. "What keeping you here all the time? You're never home anymore. I go into your room, you haven't touched your textbooks." It was true. Vyncentte had neglected his studies these past few weeks. "You-you disappear into that strange building. I don't even know what going on in your life anymore."

Vynce felt himself drowning. "You don't understand." he muttered under his breath. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he kicked a rock with his foot and started to walk towards the underground entrance.

"I've got a car waiting around the corner." Mycroft called out to him.

Vyncentte called back over his shoulder. "I don't ride in those things anymore."

Mycroft stared after him, a heavy feeling in his chest. He had beaten it and beaten it back time and time again. But it still happen. The world had gotten around all the barriers he had set up and constructed and had got to Vyncentte anyway.


	14. Musicians All

_Hello again... and yes so soon!_

_Another installment tailing right off from the last chapter that was posted. Still taking any suggestions if anyone is interested. _

_Please Read, Enjoy, and Review! Thanks!_

_ V. Jenkins_

Days after finding Vyncentte alone in Lower London, Mycroft found his respite in the study severely interrupted by the thrumming of an electric guitar. Like all Holmeses, Vynce had turned to music as the channel to vent the frustration he was feeling. And right now Mycroft was greatly regretting his choice of caving years earlier and buying Vynce a guitar amp.

"Turn it down!" he called with all his might. Mycroft didn't feel like going upstairs. It would be a fruitless endeavor anyway. Vyncentte would not allow him into the room.

A rebel-like wail of the strings and the volume was turned down. Mycroft sighed and turned back to the work he had brought home that evening. It was unfortunate that Vynce chose the genre of rock n' roll to absorb his feelings. Rock music grinded against his mind and his own personal preferences of music.

All the Holmes boys were trained musicians. Mycroft had chosen the piano and was trained diligently in the rudiments of the instrument. He perfected scales and studied the scores of classic composers. When he went to boarding school, he gave up the private lessons he had taken at home and studied at St. Prufrock's with the music master. At sixteen, he gave up playing on a weekly basis and over time his playing dwindled. He hadn't touched the instrument since the death of his parents.

When given the choice, Sherlock had selected the violin. The day Mathias Holmes had brought home the small instrument was a day peace and quiet was lost in the household. Sherlock scraped at the strings with some sort of demonic passion, and entirely refused to comply with the standards of his instructor. He'd rather teach himself… which probably took more time than if he had decided to actually listen to his teacher. Mycroft's remembrances of Sherlock's earliest days with the violin were not one he liked to reflect upon.

So when the time came for Vyncentte to pick up an instrument, Mycroft argued relentlessly against the violin. Vynce often brought up the subject of the violin, for he liked it very much and those were the days he strove to be like Sherlock. In the end Mycroft won and Vynce was signed up for piano lessons. His instructor was the same woman who had trained Mycroft in his boyhood. She was an elderly, batty old lady by the time Vynce had to suffer through her weekly lessons. Stressing the importance of the elementary elements of piano, she made him memorize all the scales and rudimentary exercises and did not allow him actual sheet music to practice from until he perfected them.

Vyncentte felt that the structure of his lessons were rather dull and longed for each one to end as quickly as possible. His instructor often fell asleep on the bench and as revenge, Vynce often pounded out the scale he was working on with renewed vigor to startle her. He also loved to bang out a diminished chord so she'd be shocked out of her dozing and demand for him to resolve it.

It wasn't that Vyncentte hated the piano. On the contrary, he respected the instrument… he just didn't like the way he had to learn it. He often broke the rules and found sheet music to play off of. Ragtime was his favorite and snappy American jazz. Anything with an upbeat tempo. Mycroft would try and try to get him to play something else, even going out and buying some of the classic overtures and sonatas that he had liked to play in his youth. Vynce played them as well, more as a favor than for pleasure, but it was obvious his musical passions laid elsewhere.

The day Eileen had brought a guitar to the house was the day Vynce found his calling. He automatically loved it and spent the following weeks teaching himself the rudiments of the instrument. It wasn't long until he would sit with an earbud in his ear and toy around with the strings until he could tell the chords apart and manipulate them into song.

Mycroft considered the guitar to be one step better than Sherlock's violin. At least Vynce quickly mastered his instrument, and Mycroft wasn't averse to buying him a second guitar, this one with electrical capabilities. Later came the amp. And there had never been a problem with it…until today.

Vyncentte had shifted into a new song. Mycroft's was immediately displeased at the first chords. It was a hit from _The Rolling Stones_, a band Mycroft viewed as completely vulgar and rebelled against what it meant to be British. Perhaps it was because of this Vyncentte had chosen this song. Why on earth was he acting this way? Mycroft felt himself spiraling once again down the path he had taken with Sherlock. He rubbed his temples in frustration.

The volume crept up again, and Mycroft felt as if his head was going to explode. He couldn't stay downstairs anymore. Pushing himself up from the desk he walk to the foot of the staircase that led to Vyncentte's room.

"**_Down!_**" he called again. The riff Vyncentte had been working on lapsed into silence. He stopped playing. A feedback screech as the plug was yanked out of something. Things seemed to finally be moving in the right direction for Mycroft. He climbed the stairs upwards only to find the bedroom door of his brother was shut. A knock on the wood left him with no response. Trying the door handle, he realized the door was locked.

"Vynce!"

"Leave me alone…"

"We need to talk."

"No we don't."

"Yes we do."

More silence. Mycroft sighed turning around and descending the stairs back to the level where his study was. At the entrance to the room he hesitated. He didn't want to go back in, and deciding upon on a detour at the spur of a moment, he altered the path he was walking and entered the music room.

The baby grand that the Holmes family owned stood in the middle of the room. Mycroft felt rather strange approaching it and even stranger when he lowered himself down on the piano bench. His pale hands stretched across the ivory keys, and he clumsily began a piece he had loved to play in his youth. As he kept playing, the feeling came back to him. The chords, the ways the hands were placed, everything felt right. The sound was deep and dark, something velvet in the inner chambers of his mind. It was a key. Something to use to escape where he was at in that moment.

* * *

At the top of the stair Vyncentte heard something he had never heard before that day. As the steady rhythms of a piano drifted towards him, Vynce reflected that the only time the piano would have been played in the house is if he himself would have been the person at the keys. Silently, he crept down the stairs towards the source of the sound, curious to see what was going on.

From a hidden spot in the hallway, he peered through the half open door of the music room and saw the profile of his brother sitting at the instrument. He paused regarding the sight with shock. Never had Mycroft played the piano for him in any of the times Vynce could remember. Mycroft had shied away from any artistic expressions, but he always had encouraged Vynce to pursue his own interests in music and the arts.

Vynce stood there and listened, absorbed in what he was hearing. It seemed like an eternity as he allowed himself to get lost in the notes and the sprawling phrases. But even this eternity had an end, and Vynce was brought back the consciousness when the last few measures trailed off into an obvious ending and eventual silence.

It wasn't until Mycroft stirred from his place at the bench that Vyncentte realized he had just been privy to a very personal moment. Something deep within him moved him to slink away and back into his bedroom.

With the ghost of the music he had just heard still alive in his head, Vynce locked himself once again in his room. His mind was a muddle, and his heart hurt. Silently, he wondered when those feelings would go away.


	15. Under Threat

_Hello again. _

_ James Moriarty steps onto the stage. Enough said._

_ Please Read, Enjoy, and Review_

_ V. Jenkins_

Things between Mycroft and Vyncentte didn't change until a day Vyncentte decided escape the mansion and go into London to grab a cup of coffee. Cafés had become a refuge area for him. They were places he was sure he wouldn't have to face his eldest brother. Not that he was purposefully ignoring him anymore. He just didn't want to have to explain the feelings or thoughts that he had been harboring the last couple of weeks. Mycroft would pry, it's what he did. And Vynce didn't feel like being examined.

He entered a café he had not set foot in before. By this time, he had haunted at least a dozen different joints in London and was getting pretty good at finding places that had a good brew. The place he had entered was called the Maison Bertaux, an old French café that he had walked by multiple times before. Maybe it was the fact that the café was tucked away in a semi-private place, or maybe it was the French blood in his veins that convinced him to try the place. Either way he stepped inside and was met with a mid-sized crowd of patrons waiting to be served at the bar.

So it was a popular café. Vynce didn't really mind at all if he had to wait for more than a few minutes for his coffee. As he stepped into line he noticed a man break away from a small group and fall in behind him. The distance between himself and the man was strangely a bit too close for Vynce, and he uncomfortably waited for his turn at the counter. It took time though. A good fifteen minutes at least. Each time that the line shuffled forward, the man behind him snuck closer towards him.

Vynce glance uncomfortably over his shoulder trying to figure out what the guy's problem was. The man wore a white v-necked t-shirt and a battered baseball cap sporting the union jack that shaded his face. Vynce wondered if he was seeing black stubble on the chin or if it was just an illusion with the shadow that the cap's brim created. Besides outward appearance, he couldn't deduce anything about the man. Maybe a tourist? He didn't know any Londoner who would wear a hat like that regularly. Whoever this man was he was quickly crossing the barrier of socially acceptable behavior.

Vynce felt like he had gained a stalker, and by the time he finally got up to the point of ordering he was severely thinking about just getting his coffee and walking out to escape the stranger. In fact, he settled on that.

"One, grande. Black." He ordered quietly, passing the money over before even receiving a total. The cashier rang him up and got his order in record timing.

"Thanks." Vynce's hand curled across the circumference of the cup and he turned to find himself blocked by the man that had been trailing behind him. Vynce tried to side-step him, only to have the man block him again.

The stranger pushed his hat back a bit, revealing more of his face, and reached his hand out to touch one of Vynce's arms. Something intimidating glinted in the man's dark eyes and a slightly menacing smile crossed his lips.

"Tell your brother," the man spoke slowly as if with an ulterior motive, "that James Moriarty sends his love." A slight moment of silence occurred between the two and Moriarty slightly squeezed Vynce's elbow. Another dark smile and he released Vynce's arm and backed away. He disappeared into the crowd leaving Vynce standing there, coffee in hand and feeling rather violated.

Slowly he came out of his slight shock and wandered out of the café. He frowned at the bright sunlight that greeted him. The man's words stayed with him. They were simple instructions, yet Vyncentte still felt confused. This 'James Moriarty' didn't even tell him which Holmes brother he meant.

* * *

Mycroft was entirely surprised when Vyncentte walked into the study that afternoon, especially since his brother had been avoiding him these last few weeks. Nevertheless, there was his brother slipping quietly in the room and sitting in a chair. Vyncentte didn't say a word, yet the look on his face worried Mycroft.

Mycroft waited for Vyncentte to speak, turning to one of his files from work that he had on his desk. His patience wasn't rewarded though, and he finally gave up and asked. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." Vyncentte sipped his coffee, the bewildered expression still evident on his face. A slight pause, then, "Something happened at the café today." He rose ready to walk out of the room.

Vynce glanced towards Mycroft wanted to see his reaction to what he was about to say. "James Moriarty sends his-regards." He had edited the original message, but it still conveyed the same meaning.

Mycroft's face became physically pale at the words. He looked down trying to recompose himself. "Who—who told you to say that?"

Vynce didn't really know what to make of his brother's question. "A man…He stopped me, put his hand on my arm and told me 'tell your brother James Moriarty sends his—um regards." He fumbled with the last word, but Mycroft didn't point it out.

"He touched you?" Mycroft rose from his chair quickly.

"…Yeah." Vynce answered. Mycroft must have been the right brother to tell, for he had a huge reaction towards what he was hearing.

"He actually physically touched you."

Vynce was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the situation. For all the times Mycroft had hidden his emotions, Mycroft's outward distress at the news was unnerving him.

"How do you know him?" Vynce finally asked. "This Moriarty fellow… who is he?"

Mycroft remained silent. He didn't want Vyncentte to get tangled up in it. Vyncentte would be lost in the already complex web of a game Mycroft was playing with the man. There were only small details he was willing to say.

"I've never actually met him. But over the last year or so… he's been making himself known to me." Mycroft finally spoke. He paused for a few seconds making a sudden decision in his mind. "I don't want you going to London anymore."

"What?" Vyncentte choked out. The unfairness of the situation flooded his mind. "This guy just says 'hi' to you and you're all in 'lock down' mode all of the sudden."

"I'm looking out for you."

"No you're not! You're just a fucking control freak that's all!"

"Vyncentte Mathias," Mycroft resorted to the middle name he always hated to use. "This man is dangerous and the last thing I want is for you to be involved in this even at a miniscule scale."

"What?" Vynce scoffed defensively. "Is he going to blow up London? Kill the Queen?" February was only weeks away and his stay with Sherlock was on the line. "What about France, huh? You made a promise."

"I made a proposition." Mycroft collapsed back into his desk chair drained already from the conversation that was ensuing. "And I'm revoking it."

"Yeah…" Vynce crossed his arms feeling the bitter emotions well up in his body. "That's you, 'the business man'. Everything rests on a technicality with you. Well, sorry but I'm still going out to the city. I don't care what you think or even what you do."

Mycroft couldn't believe the transformation he was seeing unfold right before his eyes. Was it only weeks beforehand that Vynce had been a young, considerate boy? Here before him now stood a defiant young man who was pushing back the boundaries that he had always so willingly complied to. Mycroft inhaled, patiently keeping his voice at a calm level.

"You're absolutely not leaving these grounds. Final."

"Shackle me to my room then." Vynce threatened. "Put bars on the windows and stay home from the office, because I'm going to leave no matter what."

"What is your sudden fascination with the city all of the sudden?" Mycroft demanded. "You've always been fine right here."

"It's not just the city," Vynce defended himself. "It's the world, Mycroft. I've been asleep here for so long I didn't know what I was missing. You can't keep me here all the time. I'm going to grow up, Myke…I'm going to leave. And right now, I'm thinking I'm not going to come back too often when that finally happens."

"Enough." Mycroft's voice was low.

But Vynce just kept going, "Just let me grow up, okay? Because you can't stop that from happening, no matter how hard you try. You should be glad too, because then you're gonna have your kid brothers finally out of your hair. You'll be able to do all the stuff you've always wanted to do, but couldn't because you had to look after you're stupid brothers-"

"Enough!" The elder Holmes' voice finally rose. The words were too much to listen to.

Vynce fell silent more out of shock then obedience.

Mycroft looked up at him from the desk, a far distant look in his grey eyes. "Go to your room." He ordered quietly, something was impeding his voice from sounding normal.

Vynce walked out of the study, but he didn't go to his room. He went to the parlor instead, the emotions inside of him still in turmoil.

* * *

Mycroft watched the figure of his little brother leave the study with a heavy chest. The Iceman wasn't so 'icy' as others had thought for Vynce's words hurt. They hurt a lot and some of them Mycroft couldn't forgive so readily. Did Vynce really think Mycroft regarded his brothers as baggage? A demeaning chore that he had to do? A duty? One glaring fact was obvious to him. Vyncentte shouldn't think that. Not after all that they had done together and shared.

He was brought out of his trance by the sharp tone of his phone. A message was waiting for him in his inbox. Mycroft sighed. The only person who ever texted him was Sherlock, everyone else was considerate enough to call him knowing that was his preferred way of contact. He opened the message and was disturbed to see that the sender was an anonymous number, yet the message wasn't a so anonymous message.

Dear me, Mr. Holmes, quite the handful that one.

~JM

The initials were like a thorn in his side. Moriarty again for the second time that day. He realized there was an attached file and downloaded it. Three pictures were uploaded onto his phone. Each a small thumbfile of Vyncentte. Two inside of a cramped looking café and one of him on the side on the streets of London. The unfamiliar feeling of dread arose in his mind. James Moriarty… one of the most notorious people that had come to the attention of the British Government with in the last year, was getting personal with him.

Another beep.

Come and play. Westminster. Noon.

It's time we've met face to face.

~JM

Mycroft lost no time trying to trace the number that James Moriarty was operating under and was met with no luck at all. He forwarded the task to others who were more prepared to meet the challenge. Moments after hanging up with his man Niles, Mycroft sat down and debated over the last message he had received.

Westminster. Noon. It was obviously a meeting place and time, but Mycroft contemplated whether it was wise to go. Certainly not alone. That was out of the question. Moriarty's motives were questionable and he couldn't risk coming in harm's way himself. Britain wouldn't be able to survive that. Mycroft would bring two of his men and station them off to the side and tell them not to interfere.

Noon the next day came far too soon for his preparations. He managed to secure the services of Harvey and Dominic and had them stationed beforehand in the abbey. Precisely at noon, his car pulled up to the destination.

Mycroft had been to Westminster many times in his life. School trip, Sighting-seeing, work, and ceremonies. He was rather familiar with the venue, although how to was supposed to find a man he had never really met was quite beyond him at the moment.

As he reached the doors one of the guardsmen stopped him.

"No tourists or civilians today sir," the man informed him. "Special orders."

There was a crowd of people milling around the outside of the building. He noticed that Harvey and Dominic were in the mix, neither of them able to get past the guardsmen. But Mycroft Holmes was no ordinary citizen. Pulling out his government badge, he flashed it at the man and was greeted with immediate access.

"Two of my men…" he began as he crossed the threshold.

"Just you." He was cut off in mid-sentence and forced to go inside. Even his badge couldn't change the man's mind.

The interior of the abbey looked deserted as he passed through the doors and inside the grand entrance. Yet that was far from false, for as he stepped farther into the place a solitary figure stepped out from behind one of the columns.

"Well, hello, hello, hello Mr. Holmes." A dark voice greeted him. With those words, Mycroft Holmes had his first glimpse at a man that was sure to meddle too much in his life for his comfort. "It's nice to finally meet you."

Mycroft leaned to one side supporting himself on the umbrella he had carried with him. "James Moriarty… I presume."

"You presume right." The short man adjusted his suit coat. At least he was a sharp dressed criminal.

Mycroft glared, unfazed by the man. "I have men outside."

Moriarty tilted his head, a perfect mask of confusion transforming his face. "Why on earth would you do that? I've only called you here to deliver a friendly message…"

Not wanting to play games Mycroft tried to hide his impatience. "Deliver it." He ordered.

Moriarty offered him a thin-lipped smile. "Back off."

Mycroft considered his words. It was true that he had been trailing the activities of Moriarty for months now. In fact, it was the wish of the British Government to apprehend the man and find a way to keep him behind bars. His priority project at the moment focused around James Moriarty and the list of crimes he was connected to. It seems as if his attention had not gone unnoticed. Yet, Moriarty being allowed free reign on the streets was a hard thing to ask.

"And if I don't?" Mycroft asked him.

Jim merely stood there as if waiting for something. The phone inside of Mycroft's suit coat went off. A text alert.

"I'd check that if I were you." Moriarty advised him.

Frowning, Mycroft reached into his pocket and drew out his mobile. A multimedia message was waiting in his mailbox. Two pictures were uploaded to his phone at the click of a button. They were additions to the collection he had already been sent. Vynce walking outside the gate of the Holmes estate, Vynce getting out of a cab in London.

"Taken today." Moriarty assured him. "Like I said before… a handful that one. So willful." He paused. "I like him. I'm sure we'll be great friends."

"You won't get near him." Mycroft answered readily.

Moriarty laughed. "Let me make this very, very clear to you. You can't stop me from doing anything. All the king's horses and all the king's men- Won't. Stop. Me." He said the words like a deadly promise. "Only one thing with stop me."

Mycroft knew what that thing was. "You want an exchange. You'll leave Vyncentte alone if I stop my investigations on you."

"Exactly. They told me you were sharp." Jim was just mocking him now.

Mycroft felt the trap setting in. "If I stop the progress…of our offices…you'll disappear?"

"Disappear…" Moriarty scoffed at the phrase. "That's a nasty word."

He tried again. "You'll leave my family alone?"

Jim smiled. "I'll leave Vyncentte alone."

Mycroft realized that the man was leaving out a huge part of the deal. "I said my family."

"Sherlock and I are dancing around already." Moriarty informed him. "Of course he doesn't know yet. But you wouldn't want to ruin the fun now, would you?" He continued. "No. I'll leave Vyncentte alone. And that's the deal."

Jim waited there for the answer.

Mycroft felt the unimaginable struggle of duty for his country and duty to his brother tug at his conscience.

He gave an answer… and left.


	16. The First Case Pt 1--Manifesto

_Hello all. _

_ Here's the next chapter. Caution: there is description of murder victims etc. thus the change in the rating of this story. This is the beginning of the next installment of the lives of the Holmes boys. [Although reiterating the fact that I can go back into the past with your suggestions :) ] Thanks again for the support. Please enjoy. _

_Read and Review,_

_V. Jenkins_

February came, much to Mycroft's dismay. And with it another argument.

"What's-his-face never contacted you since that time…" Vyncentte brought up one day.

"Mmm…" Mycroft merely passed over his statement as he walked by his brother. They were in the halls of the house. Tensions between them were high. Mycroft had not lifted his ban on London, and Vynce had been breaking the rules and sneaking out of the house and to the city.

"It's February." Vynce reminded him.

"I know," Mycroft sighed. He was tired. At the office he was being prepped for his trip to France and all the complications that accompanied it.

"I'm staying at Sherlock's. You're leaving in three days," Vynce reminded him.

"No. You're not. That's been cancelled." Mycroft had duly informed his other brother that Vynce was no longer going to London.

"You can't cancel something like that." Vynce argued. "We've known it's been happening for months now."

"In within the course of those months, you've sufficiently changed my mind." Mycroft told him pointedly. "Your actions in the past couple of weeks have helped me come to that decision."

"Actions?"

"Deliberant disobedience." Mycroft answered curtly.

"I am not being deliberately disobedient." Vynce responded.

"Oh really?" Mycroft turned to face his brother. He was beginning to feel ill-tempered by now. "Then what exactly is it you've been doing for the past couple of weeks?"

Vyncentte gave him one of his playful grins. "Peaceful protest." He tried.

Mycroft failed to be charmed by the smile. Instead he glared down in distaste for Vynce's badly timed joke.

Vynce's smile vanished. "Oh I'm sorry, I forgot. British citizens don't have that luxury." His voice was bitter and he crossed his arms.

"That's uncalled for." Mycroft answered. "And the decision is final."

Vynce rolled his eyes. Turning he walked away, calling over his shoulder, "It sucks living with the British Government, you know that?"

It didn't make a difference what Mycroft said. He bags were packed upstairs anyway. And, as always, Sherlock really didn't care whatever happened.

* * *

The day came for Mycroft to leave, but before he left the estate he paid a visit to Eileen in the kitchens.

"I'm so terribly sorry how inconvenient this is for you," he apologized, alluding to the fact that Eileen would spent multiple weeks full time at the house to watch over Vyncentte. "I have to go to France though. There's no way around it. Anglo-French relationships need to be re-organized in the after-math of… well, you don't need to know that, do you?" He smiled one of his thin, sad smiles. "Thank you for staying here."

"Of course, Mr. Holmes." Eileen answered. "I like Vyncentte a lot and it's no problem to stay here when you're away."

"I'm asking you to make him stay here." Mycroft added, beginning to express his concern. "No day trips to London, I don't want him sneaking out."

Eileen knew all about the battles Mycroft had been fighting with his younger brother trying to keep the boy from slipping off to London during the days. The frustration and the anger. It reminded her of the days Mycroft would fight with Sherlock and she regrettably recognized the pattern Vyncentte was following. Somehow she always knew that Vyncentte would end up more like Sherlock. At least, Vynce came home at night. That was a plus.

"I'll try my best, but…" she didn't really know how to end the sentence. "You know Vynce."

Mycroft understood her point. "Well I'll be off, then, right after I talk to him. Thank you again, I feel like I'm taking advantage of you."

Minutes after Mycroft walked out of the front door Vynce came down the stairs supporting a bag over his shoulder.

"Hey, now, where are you going with that?" Eileen stopped him.

"Myke changed his mind," Vynce said dropping the bag to the floor. "He's letting me go to Sherlock's."

"Excuse me?"

"What, he didn't tell you when he came back down?" Vynce asked, grabbing an apple from the counter.

"No. He hadn't." Eileen frowned in confusion.

"He must have been in a hurry then." Vynce remarked taking a bite.

Eileen was still suspicious of what she was hearing. She decided to poke around and investigate. "What made him change his mind?"

Vynce didn't even hesitate. "I promised I'd stop all the crap that's been going on. Told him I was sorry about the past couple of weeks."

Eileen smiled. "Let me just give him a call then, dear, then you can be on your way."

"Really Eileen?" Vynce asked tiredly. "Myke was late anyway and he's probably near the airport now with the rate Stan drives at. Phone calls are just going to waste the precious time he has. It's probably why he forget to tell you the change in plans on his way out."

Eileen's hand hovered over the phone, her movement had stopped at his words. Vyncentte had never lied to her before, and she hated to doubt him now. Vynce could read her thoughts.

"Trust me." He pleaded with her, giving her a half-smile. "Myke said it was fine. I told him I was real sorry about all the stuff that been going on, and he told me he was sorry too."

Eileen hung onto the words. She wanted so much for the rift to be over between the two brothers. She was happy to hear about the progress. "You're probably right…" she thought aloud. "Your brother probably is really busy with the travel plans."

"His phone could even be off right now." Vyncentte added. "I read somewhere that airplanes don't allow you to have electronics on when the plane is flying below 3050 meters." His memory was perfect, remembering tidbits of whatever he's read over his lifetime.

"Are you sure he said it was fine?" Eileen asked one last time.

Vynce smiled. "Promise."

* * *

The smirk barely left his face by the time Vyncentte crossed the threshold into Sherlock's flat.

The smallest effect of surprise could been seen on his brother's face, yet he hid it rather well. "Yesterday I had received a phone call telling me you were not coming." Sherlock spoke from his place on the sofa. "In fact, I believe the correct term was 'forbidding' you to come. Care to shed some light?"

"I took care of it." Vynce answered, dropping his bag by the door.

"You're still here without Mycroft's permission?" Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes scanning his brother's profile.

"Yep."

"When is he going to find out?"

"He's not." Vyncentte collapsed in a chair by the fireplace. "Hopefully he won't know until he comes back from France."

Sherlock contemplated him in a moment of silence, then spoke, "You know the rules here. I don't care what you do on your free time. Kitchen's there." He pointed off to the room adjacent. "You'll sleep on the couch… or if I'm not going to sleep you can use my bed. Stay out of legal trouble because I don't want to bail you out or get skinned by Mycroft, although I'm sure I won't remain unscathed when he returns home. Credit card's in the desk if we need anything we're out of." He paused. "Otherwise, I'm working, so leave me to it."

Vynce liked the rules. They were simple, straight forward and wonderfully liberating. He was really going to like it here.

* * *

The next few days passed uneventfully. No phone calls from irate brothers. No problems whatsoever. Vynce ducked out of the flat every morning and walked around London. Sherlock was often up in the flat brooding over one thing or another. Sometimes he'd get up, excited over something, grab his coat, and walk out the door in haste leaving Vynce in the flat by himself. Nobody came to the flat, this is almost nobody. One day was special in particular.

It started like a normal day.

"We're out of milk." Vynce slammed the fridge door shut, ignoring the dissevered hand that had been inside. He walked to the parlor seeing his brother stationed in his armchair. "Did you hear me, Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't respond and instead stared intensively at the wall opposite him.

Vynce waited a minute or so. "Er—right. I'll get the shopping then." Another second and no answer. Sighing, Vynce crossed the room and pulled one of the drawers of the desk out. Fishing around, he found Sherlock card and pocketed it. Tesco wasn't far away.

Upon returning to the flat laden with a paper bag full of groceries, Vynce found that a stranger had been admitted to the place during his absence. Sherlock seemed to be on the communicating level now, talking to the man.

Trying to not interrupt their conversation, Vynce crossed the room trying to get to the kitchen unnoticed. He didn't succeed.

"How now, who's that?" the man with slightly grey hair pointed in his direction. The man looked vaguely familiar to him. How?

"None of your concern Lestrade." Sherlock dismissed the man's question.

"You… you live with someone." Vynce could feel Lestrade's eyes bore into him. Lestrade turned back to Sherlock. "He's a minor."

"Doesn't matter." Sherlock muttered. Vynce racked his brains, trying to figure out how he might know this man.

"Who is he?"

"Never you mind." Sherlock snapped.

Lestrade realized he wasn't going to get an answer from the consulting detective and turned towards Vyncentte. "Hello, what are you doing here?"

Vynce cleared his throat uncomfortably. "Um—living. I'm his brother."

"There's two-" Lestrade began a sentence and choked on it, as if he understood what he was saying. "I'm sorry." He excused himself. "Um—so Sherlock. Will you come?"

It was at that moment that Vyncentte realized how he knew the man. His profile. Some would say silhouette. It matched the second figure he saw on the grounds a long time ago. The night Mycroft brought an intoxicated Sherlock home. This man was the second figure in the dark who had helped one of his brothers get the other out of the car.

"Why do you need me?" Sherlock demanded roughly. "You have everything you need. Especially with this last bit of information you've brought to my attention. Even you should be able to apprehend this serial killer. And that's saying a lot."

"We need you." Lestrade argued.

"Forensics?"

"Anderson."

"No."

"Come on, Anderson is my best man."

"Anderson is a brainless idiot. I can't work with him. Come back when you have someone else."

Vyncentte remained somewhat confused. His eyes scanned Lestrade taking in everything he could observe. His mind registered it and flung something back at him. Police. High ranking officer. Homicide. What business did he have with Sherlock? Well, whatever he was trying to get Sherlock to do was certainly becoming a frustrating task for him.

"Fine… I'll try to get someone else there," Lestrade conceded. "Now, will you please come?"

"I suppose." Sherlock rose from his chair. "I've got nothing else on."

The older Holmes got ready to leave bee-lining towards the door.

"Oh, hey," Lestrade stopped him.

"What?"

"What about him?" Lestrade pointed to Vyncentte.

"Yes. What about him?" Sherlock asked puzzled.

"Well, you're just going to leave him here?" Lestrade asked. "I mean… he's not even supposed to be here is he?"

"Failing to see your point Detective Inspector." Sherlock answered readily. "Vynce is fine here."

Lestrade responded. "Well, you know, he could come. If that's what you want."

Sherlock paused for a second, then, "Vynce's choice." He strode out of the room and down the hallway stairs towards the street door.

Lestrade looked at Vynce.

"You were at our house once." Vynce stated. He didn't know why he was saying it. It just came out.

"Yeah, I guess I was." Lestrade agreed. Then he asked, "You don't live with Sherlock do you? You live with your other brother."

"He's in France right now." Vynce said. "Why do you work with Sherlock?"

Lestrade thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat. "Because he's smart. And he knows how to find the things we're looking for. Your brother linked me to him."

"As a favor?"

"More as an agreement." Lestrade corrected him. "So are you coming?"

"Why?"

So I can keep an eye on you as well. Lestrade didn't want to say it. Sherlock was too much of a handful at times. Another Holmes might prove to be too much, but from what he had seen of the third Holmes, he had come to the conclusion that the youngest wasn't as bad as his older brother.

"Thought you might be lonely. All alone up here." He said.

"Is there a dead body?" Vynce asked.

"Yes." Lestrade was a little put off by the enthusiasm of the question. Were all Holmes attracted to the macabre?

Vynce consider the situation carefully. He didn't like policemen, but… the allure to know what Sherlock really did grasped him. "I'm in." Vynce answered. Grabbing his jacket he went to follow in the footsteps of Sherlock.

* * *

The crime scene was rather a disappointment for Vyncentte. The Detective Inspector would not allow him past the barrier of where the homicide had actually taken place.

"I—um—don't want to get into any trouble," Lestrade had pulled him back just as Sherlock was crossing the taped line. "I don't think it's legal to have you in there."

"Is it legal for Sherlock to be in there?" Vynce asked.

Lestrade was unprepared for that question. "Well…um… I really don't know. I guess. Look, it'd just be a whole lot easier if you just waited here for your brother to get done." He looked around at the group of people milling by. "Sally!"

A dark skinned woman broke away from the crowd. "Yes, sir?"

"Can you—um," he gestured towards Vynce.

Sally gave the teenager a look of slight abhorrence yet proceeded to answer. "Yes, sir." She stayed outside with him and Lestrade disappeared into the chaos of the forensic team.

Vynce noticed how irked the female officer was feeling. "I'm fourteen, you know?" he told her.

"Really?" she asked, obviously disinterested.

"I don't need to be… supervised." The last word was disgusting to him. "You can go in if you want. I'm fine here."

Sally gave him one glance up and down. "You look like the type that would slip right in there the moment I walk away." she commented. "So I'll think I'll stay here to save my ass and keep that from happening."

"Your loss." Vynce stated. "I gave you the chance to get away…" They stood in almost complete silence for the remainder of the time they were waiting. Vynce didn't mind Sally. It's just he really didn't like the fact that he was being under watch. He didn't need a baby sitter and he didn't need to be protected. Whatever DI Lestrade thought, Vynce knew he could handle a crime scene.

Finally, Sherlock and Lestrade stepped out from the building and walked over to where Sally and Vynce by a cruiser.

"I'm going to need to see what we were talking about earlier." Sherlock told the man.

"It's at the station," Lestrade answered. "We can give you lift. Unless you want a cab."

"I'll be in a cab behind you." Sherlock answered. He stepped out onto the curb and hailed one. Vyncentte gave a wary glance towards Lestrade and followed his brother. He wasn't sure if he like Lestrade or not.

* * *

The inside of the New Scotland Yard was not as impressive as Vyncentte thought it would be. It looked like the inside of an ordinary office building, nothing really much like he imagined it would be. All the policemen who were at the crime scene were milling around the halls. Lestrade waved them into a conference room from behind the glass. Sally was there and another man who Vyncentte had not met yet.

"Where is it?" Sherlock demanded, curtly.

Lestrade held out a stack of paper towards him. "Here it is in its entirety."

"A manifesto…" Sherlock intoned accepting the document. "The key to all of our answers."

Vynce looked on eagerly as Sherlock flipped rapidly through the pages. Lestrade tried to draw his attention away from it.

"Vynce, you know Sergeant Donovan, this is Anderson." Lestrade introduced the man in the room.

"Charmed." Vynce responded quietly. His eyes didn't leave his brother.

"Do you have a copy?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

"Excuse me?" Lestrade asked.

"Do you have a copy of the manifesto?" Sherlock asked again.

Lestrade nodded. "We had to make one for evidence."

"Is this the original?"

"Yes."

"Good." Sherlock re-fastened the binder clip to the papers. "I'll take this one."

Lestrade was shocked at his statement. "Um… I don't think that's-"

"Nonsense." Sherlock already knew what Lestrade was going to say. "I need the original."

"Alright but I'm counting on you to bring it back." Lestrade tried to be stern, but something in his tone was failing. "I also want updates. None of our guessing game stuff."

"As always, working with you Lestrade shall be a pleasure," Sherlock promised. Vyncentte caught onto the sarcasm right away. "Well, I have what I need. I'm off." Spinning on his heel, Sherlock strode out of the conference room.

Vynce shrugged his shoulder. "Well—see you, I guess." He left too.

* * *

Back at the flat Sherlock tossed the papers on the side table and picked up his violin. The airs of a concerto began to float across the air, and Vyncentte sat down on the sofa. He couldn't stop looked at the document.

"Can I read this?" he asked Sherlock. His brother continued to play ignoring his request. "Um—Sherlock?"

He supposed that Sherlock didn't really mind after all, since he couldn't be bothered to answer. Picking up the pages, his eyes quickly scanned them taking in every word and digesting it.

_**Women are filth. The lowest creatures of the earth. The basest forms of life that must be exterminated from this planet. I have taken it into my hands to fulfill this mission. Their only benefit is the pleasure of man. As empty vessels they have no purpose. They must be banished. With a blade I carve my mark. Their blood is a token of my victory.**_

It was just the beginning there was thirty more pages. Most of it was all the same redundant sentences drilling in the same point message. Women were subsidiary and should be subordinate. Sherlock had also nicked some photographs of the crime scene. He found the photos pressed in between the second and third pages.

Two were of girls. Their throats were slashed. Looking at the angle and the bruises that were evident on the bodies, Vyncentte concluded that whoever killed them had cut their necks from the front. He was probably lying on top of them, pinning them down. Other marks on the forearms looked like they were made pre-mortem. One looked severely deep. In fact it looked more than just slashes… it was some sort of emblem. The other woman had it too. Then there were post mortem marks, as if the predator plunged a blade into the stomach multiple times. The third picture was of a room. Blood stains spattered over the walls and the bed sheets were soaked crimson.

Vynce went on reading the pages making his own deductions. He was obviously male. A female would not have these opinions at this degree. But women scared this man. His manifesto was written as if he was trying to convince someone that his actions were righteous. He's not confident until he can isolate them. Perhaps, he's sexually incompetent. That's why he used a knife. A psychological substitute for his inability to act on his repressed sexual urges.

Vynce spent the right of the night reading and re-reading the pages. Each word became imprinted on his mind. As the hours ticked by, he spiraled deeper and deeper into the mind of a serial killer.


	17. The First Case Pt2--Off the Edge

_Hello all. _

_ This is the second part of the last chapter to fulfill "The First Case". This is the beginning...the beginning of the Holmes's lives when John walks into the picture. Special thanks to erinhiddlestoner (Kay) for reading this beforehand. __**Caution to all readers**__: This chapter is the reason that the__** story's rating has been updated to "M".**__ There is homicidal and suicidal tenancies, blood, knifes, and self-harm. In no ways to I condone any of these practices etc. My heart goes out to anyone who has experienced traumatic events that might have or not have contained any of these elements. I hope you've found a safe place in the world and a shoulder to lean on. _

_Thank you for your support. _

_Please Read and Review_

_Love to all, _

_V. Jenkins_

Mycroft hardly got a break since he landed in France. It was in the middle of his fourth day there when he finally got the opportunity to phone the estate.

"Yes, Mr. Holmes, everything here is just fine." Eileen assured him when he asked how things were at the house.

"Good, good," The stress he was feeling ebbed a little. There was only one thing he wanted to do before he had to go to his next diplomatic meeting with the Prime Minister. "Let me speak to Vyncentte before we hang up please."

The other end of the phone was silent.

"Eileen?"

"Mr. Holmes, you know full well you can't speak to him here."

Mr. Holmes inhaled in vexation. "Pray tell me why I cannot do that." He demanded.

"Because he's off at his brother's that's why. You're the one who let him go right before you left."

"No, I certainly did not!" Mycroft responded quickly. A panic gripped his inner mind. "How did he manage to make you agree to let him go?"

"He told me you had changed your mind."

"Why didn't you call me?" Mycroft asked her.

"I was going to, but…Vyncentte's never lied before."

Mycroft sighed, the anger welling up in him. "And he's never snuck off, spoke back, and played the smart ass before. Of course he's going to lie now." His mind hurt. Why? Why? Why? Why? It was a question he was asked far too much now. He wished for a time machine. Something to help take him back to times he didn't have to worry about two brothers and where they were and what they were doing.

There was a knock at his door, and Mycroft observed that it was entirely not the right time.

"Mr. Holmes, your next engagement start in less than ten minutes," a voice called from the opposite side of the door.

"Not now Finlay." He called over towards the direction of the awaiting man.

"Really, Mr. Holmes. We can't be late for this." Finlay's voice was urgent.

"What should I do, Mr. Holmes?" Eileen asked over the phone line.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I'll take care of it, Eileen. I'm going to-"

"Mr. Holmes!" Finlay called out one more time.

"I am currently occupied, Mister Finlay!" Mycroft snapped. "I beg your forgiveness Eileen, but I'll have to call you later."

Hanging up the phone he reflected on all he had to do. He had the present engagement on his hands with the head of the department of national security. Then he met again with the Prime Minister, then another meeting with who he did not know. He also had to report back to his own office and Her Royal Majesty. Somehow he would have to find the time to call Sherlock. And then try to reach Vyncentte. He was not looking forward to those conversations. After all of that he could call back Eileen.

* * *

When Sherlock finally snapped out of his trance he was fairly sure he knew all the answers to the questions that had been plaguing him. He halted his playing and laid his violin back into its opened case. While doing this he realized his brother was sprawled out on the couch fast asleep, the pages of the manifesto document scattered around the immediate area. Sherlock collected them and observed each page had been under a considerable scrutiny the night before.

Realizing it was already evening, Sherlock wondered how much time had actually passed. He ordered the papers and clipped them back together, even finding the photos he had snuck out of the precinct. Perhaps he'd bring them back to Lestrade if he remembered or if he was feeling really generous at the moment. Otherwise they would just be added to the other strange memorabilia around that flat that had accumulated over the past couple of years or two.

It took a couple of rough pokes in the shoulder to wake up Vyncentte, and he slowly opened his eyes in an unfocused look. Something was off in his eyes and he wouldn't look directly at Sherlock. Sherlock merely took it as a sign that his kid brother wasn't too happy about being woken up in that way.

"Get up." Sherlock ordered. "I'm going to text Lestrade. Get dressed."

Vynce didn't smile or react to his words. His expression was stoic and wordlessly he rose from the sofa. Sherlock took out his phone from his pocket and realized he had four voice messages. He frowned at the caller id. It was Mycroft. Each were spaced in two hour increments. Obviously he had realized the changes in the situation at home. Ignoring the messages, Sherlock texted Lestrade to come to the flat.

**Come to flat. Killer known. Be ready to make arrest.**

** SH**

Twenty minutes later Lestrade was in the room. He had brought Sargent Donavon with him.

"What is this Sherlock?" Lestrade asked immediately. "You said you were certain we could make an arrest."

"Yes, I am certain. It will only take a short car ride and we shall be able to apprehend your perpetrator."

Lestrade absorbed the information. "Alright. Okay. Great. Yeah, let's—uh—let's get going." He looked around the room, spying Vynce who was sitting alone in a chair away from the rest of the people in the room. "Uh—Donovan, stay here and Sherlock and I will be back and take you to the precinct."

"Sir," Donovan started to protest.

Lestrade cut her off. "Just—do it." He ordered. "We'll be back." Taking one last look at the unresponsive boy, he followed Sherlock out of the flat and to the street.

* * *

Something in the inner senses of Vyncentte's mind allowed him to know that two people had left the apartment. Only one person remained. Sally Donovan. His inner instinct buzzed with something strange. His actions were not his own anymore. Rising from his seat he moved slowly trying not to bring attention to his movements. Passing the front door, he nonchalantly engaged the lock and walked into the kitchen leaving the woman in the parlor.

In the kitchen his eyes roamed around the room searching for whatever the peculiar urge in his mind was wanting him to find. He was ultra-sensitive of Donovan's presence in the room adjacent and the nervous system in his head was going hay-wire. Something tingled in his spine when his eyes rested on the knife holder by the sink.

Do it. Take it. His hand gripped the handle of the biggest one and carefully slid it out of the wood. The blade shined from the overhead light. The balance of the blade was perfect and something seems so right in the act of holding it.

_Women are filth. Women are filth. The basest forms of life that must be exterminated from this planet. I take it into my hands to fulfill this mission._

_I take it into my hands to fulfill this mission._

_I take it into my hands to fulfill this mission._

_With this blade…. I carve my mark._

_Their blood… is my victory._

The words raced across his mind, horrendously pounding at his brains. Inh a ling he tried to control himself. The blade shook in his hand. His body began to tremor_. Blood. Victory. _

* * *

Mycroft was standing outside of a conference room waiting for his next appointment when his phone rang. Eagerly he pulled it out thinking it was Sherlock calling back from all the messages he had left. Instead he was greeted by the surprise of seeing Anthea's name listed under the caller id. Uneasy, he answered it.

"Hello?"

"Sir," the word had no support whatsoever by her voice. In fact, it was a breathless sigh conveying the relief she felt in reaching him and also the emotion of severe panic at the same time.

"Anthea, what is it?" he demanded. He didn't like the suspense of the call.

"You - you ," she choked . 'You need to come home right now sir. Come home."

Mycroft's stomach twisted. "Anthea, what's happened?"

"Sir…there's been a change in the surveillance. Just come directly home. There's trouble at home. Manette Street trouble."

* * *

"Sir! Sir!" the panic in Donovan's voice was evident from the receiver of Lestrade's phone. "He has a knife! He has a knife!"

Lestrade was outside of the Manette street flat with five cruisers and Sherlock by his side. The consulting detective's face was utterly pale, and Lestrade was at his wit's end of what to do. They had already sent a cruiser with the true serial killer to the New Scotland Yard,and minutes after had been informed about a domestic situation at the address of Sherlock's flat.

Sherlock's phone rang, it's tiny weight vibrating violently in his coat pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen.

**Mycroft Holmes**

Something in him wanted to ignore the call, but he was now very shaken and scared about what would happen if he did pass over the call. Hesitantly, he answered it.

"Mycroft…"

"Sherlock," Mycroft tone was ominous. "What the hell is going on over there? I'm landing in Heathrow right now."

Sherlock swallowed hard. Mycroft was back in London. Things were not going to go down without the maximum amount of drama. "It's fine, Mycroft… um it's just."

"Shut up, Sherlock! This is entirely horrible to have to be called back home because my brother cannot keep my other brother in hand! Besides, he wasn't even supposed to be there! Do you have no common sense at all, Sherlock? When I call and say 'no' do you suddenly hear 'yes' and welcome Vyncentte at he steps across your threshold? You should have sent him home where he belongs."

"Mycroft-I-" Sherlock started.

"No, Sherlock don't." a pause in which none of the tension from the conversation faded. "I'll be there in five minutes." The click of the receiver let him know Mycroft had hung up on him.

* * *

Vyncentte trembled where he sat. He had Sally Donovan trapped in the corner of the room, no way to get out. She was on the phone with someone.

"He's got a knife, Greg…" Her voice shook and wavered.

Her whimpering was getting on his nerves. "SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!" he screamed. "THROW IT AWAY. THROW IT AWAY." he gestured with the knife for her to throw the phone away from her. "Right. Now."

Sally complied quickly throwing the mobile across the room in a panic.

His body was shaking and there was a violent pounding in his skull. _ Go for it. Do it. Do it now._ He wanted to stop. He didn't want to be that. His muscles constricted wanting to propel his body forward, yet something in him kept him back.

It was the look in Donovan's eyes that kept him at bay. Big pleading eyes that begged him to stop.

He choked. "I can't ….don't you understand?" He bit his lip hard drawing blood. The blade in his hand caught the light. His chest tightened and he heard the sirens below. Beginning to pace, he tried to control his feelings, trying to control the rage in his heart and the violence in his mind.

* * *

Mycroft was getting out of the car even before the vehicle had came to a complete stop. He bounded towards the group of people assembled outside and found his brother and the DI Lestrade.

"Why isn't anyone doing anything yet?" he demanded. Everyone was just standing around.

Lestrade merely glanced at him. "We don't know what to do… he's a fourteen year old kid. I'm not sure if it's right to barge in there with guns and…"

"What's the exact situation?" Mycroft asked. "Who's in there besides him and Sergeant Donovan?"

"No one else is in there." Lestrade answered.

"Why is there a situation then? Who's the man with the knife?" Mycroft asked. He wasn't fully briefed on the situation. There hadn't been time.

"Vyncentte…" Sherlock's voice faltered. "Vynce is the one with the knife."

The center of Mycroft's chest felt like it had just been bludgeoned. His frustration reached an unimaginable peak. "Sherlock!"

"It's true Mycroft, just listen."

"I'm done listening." Mycroft snapped. " I'm going in there."

"Not advisable, leave it to the authorities." Lestrade interrupted.

"The authorities aren't doing anything." Mycroft stripped over his suit jacket and flung it over the hood of one of the police approached the building daring anyone to stop his advancement.

* * *

When he reached the top of the steps Mycroft was met by a locked door. He pulled a pocket knife from his pocket and flipped the blade open. Breaking into his own brother's apartment to stop his other brother from committing a crime was definitely not going to land him in jail. Plus he couldn't be arrested. He was the British Government.

As he worked at the lock, he heard the voices within.

"Just put it down… okay, Vynce. Please… Please." The woman's voice was choked with tears. "You're hurting-"

"Quiet." Vynce's voice was low. She fell silent. Mycroft worked with renewed vigor, shifting the blades to pry through the tumblers. He heart rate was increasing at an increasingly alarming rate. The image of his little brother hovering over another person with a knife was horrifying to him. If Vynce didn't kill someone with a knife, he would kill Mycroft by giving him a heart attack. He pounded on the door.

"Vyncentte! Vyncentte!"

"_No stop_!" It was a shriek.

Mycroft jammed the blade into the last of the lock's tumblers and banged the door open. Sally Donovan was backed into a corner facing a chair.

"Help him! Help him!" she pleaded with Mycroft as she saw him enter the room. "Help him… he's...he's…"

Mycroft rushed into the room to a vantage point where he could see what she was frantically pointing at. Vyncentte was in the chair, a pool of blood accumulating at the floor by his feet. His little brother's face was pale and strained, his hand curled around the handle of a butcher knife. It was a faint rhythmic movement slicing across the the length of his thigh. The metal dug into the skin, ripping it into a deeper gash. He was shaking.

Mycroft couldn't breathe anymore. His lungs couldn't contain anything.

"He didn't want to hurt me…" Sally spoke quietly from the corner. "He was trying to stop. He's trying to stop."

Mycroft stepped around to the front of the chair. Vyncentte wasn't letting go of the knife. The stabs were getting deeper and more anxious in their rhythm. Mycroft kneeled down on the floor, his stomach twisting at the sight. The blood soaked into his dress pants, but he didn't care.

"Vyncentte," his voice shook. "I need you to put the knife down, okay?" He tried to reach out and take it, but Vynce pulled it away.

"I don't want to hurt her." The words were hard to get out.

"You're not going to, okay? I've got you. Just give the knife to me."

Vynce looked at the object, as if curious why it was now protruding from his leg. He was so confused how he had got here. To this point.

"I read it." he said quietly. "I read it. The words." his voice quavered.

"I've got you," Mycroft repeated. "You're not going hurt anyone. Let me have have the knife, Vyncentte." He couldn't bear seeing it slipping between the crevice of sliced skin. His brother's jeans were reduced to tatters by now and crimson with blood. He wasn't sure how much blood his brother had lost by now. Something told him it was too much. Hesitantly he reached out with his right hand and placed it on the leg that was unharmed. Vynce's hand released the handle of the knife and hovered in mid-air. Warily, Mycroft kept his right hand where it was and reached out with his left. He pulled the blade from his brother's leg and let it clatter to the floor. Vyncentte was silently crying, the tears falling off his cheeks.

Mycroft wiped them away.

"It's okay." his lips were dry. He moved his right hand to press on the wound. "It's okay. It's okay. It's okay." he couldn't stop saying it.

Vynce's body trembled. Mycroft pulled him from the chair, trying to gather him up into his arms. His brother was too tall, but he couldn't walk. Not with the state his leg was in. Mycroft supported him.

"Get Lestrade." Mycroft ordered Donovan. The woman hurried quickly from the room.

Vynce wanted to push himself away. His mind was still pounding._ No. No. NO_. His eyes wandered over his brother's body. He wanted to be away. His eyes rested on Mycroft's pale impulsive urge to wrap his hands around his brother's cartoid artery was rising. Vynce struggled with him, wanted to get away._ I don't want to hurt you. I don't want to hurt you._ He pushed away, only having Mycroft clasp onto him even tighter. He settled on holding his breath, perhaps that would stop him from doing what his mind wanted him to do.

"Vyncentte. Vyncentte."

_I don't want to hurt you_. He collapsed to the floor.

"I need a stretcher!" It was the last words Vyncentte heard before he blacked out.


	18. The Iceman

_Hello again. _

_ Thanks for all the traffic that's been going on the last few days. It really is nice to see. Here's the next chapter that hopefully helps transition into what will be chapter 19. Thanks again for the support._

_Please Read, Enjoy, and Review_

_V. Jenkins_

Vynce had been taken to the hospital. There was no way for Mycroft to convince the authorities to take him anywhere else. Now he sat outside of the psychiatric ward of St. Bartholomew's waiting for information. DI Lestrade was lurking fifty feet down the hall and looked as if he was waiting for the right time to approach him. Mycroft decided to make the man's decision for him and waved him closer.

"Mr. Holmes," Lestrade greeted him.

Mycroft was in no mood for formalities and conversations that tip-toed around the facts. "Are you going to need to arrest him?" he asked.

"For what?" Lestrade asked.

"Attempted homicide."

Lestrade stood there for a second. "Donovan…doesn't want to press charges. She feels that he's punished himself enough with the um—yeah."

Mycroft rubbed his cold hands together. "Knife." He finished the detective inspector's sentence with brutal bluntness.

"We all just want him to get the help he needs right now." Lestrade continued quietly. "There will be no legal issues to deal with."

Mycroft was silently grateful that he didn't have to deal with the complications of the justice department. But it didn't lift his spirits at all. The silence he had lapsed into had helped persuade Lestrade to leave him alone.

As the minutes ticked by, Mycroft drew further and further into himself. His demeanor took on a certain frigidity. Doctors and nurses passed him, trying to avoid his hostile glares. A chill became peculiarly apparent in his chest. Slowly it crept through his body, expanding through his veins. He didn't move, sitting frozen in the same position until a man ventured to stop in front of him.

"Mycroft Holmes?" the man was a doctor. White coat, stethoscope draped around his neck.

"Yes."

"I'm Dr. Lewis. I've been assigned to your-" he checked the charts in his hands, "brother's case." He held out a hand, but Mycroft refused to take it.

"Any news?" he demanded. The doctor pulled back his proffered hand and uncomfortably adjusted his glasses.

"He's stabilized and we've wrapped the wound that had been created on the right thigh. To be safe we've kept him under anesthetics and sedatives. Even if he wakes up he's under restraints, so he won't be able to… do anything." The last words were choppy due the fact that Dr. Lewis was trying to find the best possible euphemism to use. Vyncentte had been admitted as a patient who would harm himself while given the chance due to a traumatic psychotic episode. It's why he was in the psychiatric ward and not the ER.

Mycroft did not respond. He rose from the bench where he had been sitting, straightened his suit coat, and shook the doctor's hand. "We'll talk again, Dr. Lewis." He promised, turning and walking towards the nearest elevator. The ice didn't leave him. It engulfed his heart and his mind. He had calls to make, apologies to send, and appointments to keep. The night had already taken too much of his energy leaving him with not a lot of time.

On the ground floor he was confronted with the sight of Sherlock sitting on a bench by himself, his hands steepled in pensive contemplation. Mycroft walked past him without saying a word and into the cold night ahead.

* * *

Vynce vaguely became conscience of the foggy haze that surrounded him. He felt limp and could not move much. Strangely enough he couldn't feel the pain he was expecting to feel. He couldn't feel anything really, especially in his leg. It registered with him that he was under the influence of heavy drugs. Something deep, deep inside of his head was not comfortable with the fact…yet there was nothing he could do.

He managed to open his eyes. The white lights of the hospital room glared disturbingly into his eyes. He was in the bed. An uncomfortable pinching sensation on the back of his hand let him know that there was an IV needle in his vein. He wanted to pull it out. Wanted it out of his body because he was sure it was the source of what was making him so confused. One movement with his hand and he realized he was restrained. A white cuff encircled his wrist holding it fast to the edge of the bed. It was the same with the other. He didn't even dare try to move his legs. The discomfort in his right thigh was already starting to tingle and overcome whatever was keeping the pain at bay.

Someone came into the room and realized he was awake. They walked over to one of the machines and turned a few dials and left. He suddenly began to feel tired again the fog becoming strong around his mind again. He slipped off, the tension and anxiety that had been building up in his body fading.

* * *

When Sherlock left St. Bart's, he had no news about Vyncentte. Using clues and reading the signs, he had successfully tracked down the doctor that had been assigned to his brother. He was not able to make the man tell him anything about Vynce or the condition he was in. It was entirely impossible due to the fact he had no legal custody over Vyncentte.

"Dr. Lewis?" He approached the man he had been following for two minutes.

"Can I help you?" the man was puzzled.

"I'm Vyncentte Holmes' brother." He introduced himself. "I was wondering what you could tell me… about the situation."

Dr. Lewis frowned as he walked over to a hallway station and fumbled through some of the files. He found the one he was looking for. He flipped through some of the pages, then flipped backwards, scanning the document as if searching for something specific. Obviously not finding what he was looking for his closed the folder.

"I'm sorry, sir. I can't tell you anything." Dr. Lewis looked sincere.

Sherlock wasn't happy to hear that. "I'm his brother. Family. I should be told."

"And you're not on the HIPPA form." Lewis informed him. "Again. I'm really sorry. Go on home, sir."

He walked away from Sherlock, giving him no choice but to follow his advice.

Walking up the steps of his Manette St. flat, Sherlock was confronted with a piece of paper tacked to his door. It was a notice. He was being evicted from the building. Three weeks were allotted for him to move his stuff out. Anything else would be sold.

* * *

When Mycroft returned back to the estate house he realized it was empty. Eileen had already gone home to her personal lodgings and her husband. He was alone. Unlocking the door with his key, he entered the dark entrance hall and almost tripped over his luggage. Stan had driven to the house when Mycroft was sitting in the hospital, taking care of the remnants of his travels and unloading the car.

Mycroft left the bags by the door and climbed the stairs in the dark to his bedroom suite. That room was the only one he allowed himself to turn the light on in. He sat exhausted on the edge of the bed. It was an emotion he was feeling a lot of lately. Tired. Worn down. Old. Looking down, he noticed he had not changed since the incident. Blood stains were very evident against the light grey of his pants. Maybe that's why people had been staring at him in the hospital. He would stare if there was a man drenched half in blood in a public place. Even a hospital.

Rising, he went the bathroom that adjoined his bedroom. He loosened the tie, letting it drop to the floor, and unbuttoned the shirt. He took off the clothes that reminded him of the night's events and stepped into the shower. Washed away, he needed all of it to be washed away. The water burned like a fire, scalding his skin on contact. It shocked him. The water knob had been barely turned past the 'cold' setting… it couldn't even be considered to being close to the 'hot' side of the dial. Yet the water that was usually too cold for him was unbearably hot. Even that couldn't wash away the intruding coldness that he seemed to set root inside of his body, it merely burned the outside. The warmth was too much in the end. He desperately turned the shower off the second after he had washed away the last of the blood from his skin.

He toweled off and put on clean clothes. The chill was coming back across his skin. The shirt and tie he tossed in a hamper. He threw the pants in the garbage. There was no way he was getting the stains out.

Knowing he wasn't going to fall asleep, Mycroft stretched out full-length on his bed. He left the light on and pondered over the thoughts that were swirling in his mind. He was so...so… angry. Angry at Sherlock, angry at DI Lestrade, angry at at...everything. Most of all angry that Vyncentte had gone to London. None of this would've happened if only... The frustration welled up inside of him. But he beat it back. He bottled it up and put it away. He had seen what anger and frustration had done to other people.

So he pushed it back and tried to forget.


	19. Life Goes On

_Hello all. _

_Life goes on and John Watson comes to the stage. There is a lot of dialogue from "A Study in Pink". I __**do not claim rights**__ to it. I have to give credit to those wonderful men Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat and all the staff that helps them put on this wonderful production. _

_ Thanks for your support. _

_ Please Read and Review :)_

_ V. Jenkins_

Life became utterly mundane. Mycroft awoke. Got ready. Went to the office. Went to the club. Came home late. And fell asleep. His voice never again left the smooth, calm register that he considered to be normal. He managed to convey emotion only with the slant of his eyes, the corners of his thin mouth, and the occasional tilt of an eyebrow. He was never surprised.

When he finally did reach out to Sherlock-weeks later—he was aggressively pushed away, not even acknowledged and totally cut off from any communications. Calls were unanswered, per usual, but also texts were not responded to. Mycroft found about the Manette St. situation through other sources. So his brother was homeless. One call to the landlord made any hope of securing the property again vanish from Mycroft's mind.

"No, sir, no money, nothing will convince me to lease that flat to that maniac again." The man's voice quavered with a thick German accent.

"We haven't even discussed a price yet," Mycroft spoke calmly over the receiver. It was a business deal… much like he viewed everything else in his life as now.

"No price!" The receiver slammed on the other end, leaving Mycroft with a dial tone buzzing in his ear. He let the phone drop back into the cradle, pursing his lips. The machine was blinking informing him that a message was waiting for him. It had been waiting there for a week. Mycroft picked up the receiver and pressed the button to hear it again. It wasn't necessary… he knew it by heart. But he did it anyway.

"Um… Mr. Holmes… Dr. Lewis. Hoping I would be able to reach you in person. We need to talk about well—the immediate future—and make some arrangements. I'd appreciate you giving me a call back so we can talk and potentially make an appointment to meet together and discuss some options. My number's 020 8664 4211."

The message ended there. Mycroft had been procrastinating on calling Dr. Lewis back. He didn't know why, but he couldn't bring himself to pick up the phone and dial the number he had been given. As for the 'immediate future'… he didn't want to ponder over it much. But then another cold, collected part of himself told him he was being ridiculous. It was time to act. It was his duty. Just another business deal for another day.

* * *

Sherlock threw himself into his work with renewed vigor. He didn't stop. Not once. If it wasn't a case he was working on, it was a science experiment. If it wasn't an experiment…well he kept himself occupied.

He spent most of his time in the morgue and study areas of St. Bart's hospital. They had gradually accepted his presence there, even though he couldn't get anywhere close to finding out where Vyncentte was or how he was doing. He refused to care anymore.

Instead he spent most of his time in the labs. There he was daily put under the trouble of having to deal with the female med-tech that worked the morgue. A Martha, Mia, or Molly. Whatever. Once in a while medical students and teaching doctors would come in and try to use the equipment. Sherlock had no patience for them. They only time he ever conceded to talk to one of them was one day when there was an overly-large man staring at him from across the room.

"Can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock asked up out of the blue, adjusting one of the knobs on the microscope to focus in the blood sample he was looking at.

"Excuse me?" the fat man was bewildered.

"Can I borrow your phone?" He asked again.

"Um—yes. Yes, um—here you go." The doctor (yes, that's what the man was. Sherlock had deduced that) pulled out his mobile and handed it to the young man. He was in awe that the man no one knew anything about had decided to talk to him of all people.

"Thanks." Sherlock took it and began to send the text he needed to send.

"Mike Stamford, by the way," the man introduced himself. "Since you asked."

"Sherlock Holmes." He hit 'send' and handed the phone back to its owner.

Stamford lurked at the side of his lab table. "Are you from around the area?" he asked.

Sherlock felt annoyed by his prolonged presence. "Between places right now." He said calmly, turning back to his slides.

"So trying to find a place…bit tough in London, eh?" Stamford laughed nervously.

"I suppose…"

"I'd advise going into shares with someone if you're going to afford any flat houses around here." Stamford added helpfully.

"Who'd want me for a flatmate?" His voice was dark, trying to warn the man to leave him alone.

"Some chum, I suppose." Stamford answered good-heartedly. He could sense Sherlock's hostility. "Well, good luck in your search, mate." He slapped one of Sherlock's shoulder in an act of friendships. Sherlock bit his tongue in irritation.

* * *

Sherlock kept to his work for hours. He even stepped down to the morgue to examine a body for a while. Riding crop. Tricky business with post-mortem bruising. It was the afternoon, when Stamford returned to the lab and Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man's perseverance. Another man was trailing the doctor.

"Bit different from my day…" the second man commented stepping into the room. Sherlock digested this statement and tucked it away in his brain. Trained at Bart's. Something about the stranger attracted his attention. He walked with a cane and a pronounced limp as he entered the room. The stance said military. It was reinforced by the tan the man possessed, which stopped at the wrists and the neckline. Ex-army doctor. One glance at Stamford told him all his needed to know. His army friend needed lodgings and Stamford, remembering what Sherlock had said early that day, had brought him to the lab.

He decided to talk. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? Mine has no signal." he asked entering the conversation.

"And what's wrong with the landline?' Stamford asked.

"I prefer to text."

Mike checked his pockets. "Sorry, it's in my coat." He apologized. Sherlock didn't care, in fact he was counting on Stanford not to have a phone.

The stranger reached instinctively to his own pocket, drawing out a mobile. "Er—here… use mine." He reached out his arm and offered the object to Sherlock.

"Oh…" Sherlock feinted surprise. "Thank you."

Stamford introduced the stranger. "This is an old friend of mine, John Watson."

He took it, scrolling through and opening a text message. He was examining the phone as he typed. Expensive, yet scratched around the power jack. An engraving on the back. To Harry. Not John. And Clara. Romantic attachment.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked John suddenly.

John was taking by surprise, his face contorting in a confused expression. "Sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" he probed.

John clamped the mouth that had been open in awe shut. "Afghanistan." He frowned in concentration. "Sorry, how did you…"

Molly bustled in the lab with the promised cup of coffee she had said she would bring Sherlock. He left John's half-question unanswered. "Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you." He took a glance at her face. "What happened to the lipstick?"

Molly's lower lip drew into her mouth in self-consciousness. "It wasn't working for me." She confessed quietly.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement," he took a sip of the coffee and winced putting the cup down. It was really horrible stuff. "You mouth's too small now." He remarked.

"Um—okay. I—just-," Molly backed out of the lab hurrying off into the hallway. Sherlock let her. The attentions she gave him made him feel sick.

He turned his attention back to John. What was it about him that made him seem so familiar? Something in the watery blue grey eyes caught his attention. A sharp pain of guilt stabbed at his heart. He pushed the feelings away. "How do feel about the violin?" he asked the short man.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." Sherlock put his worst attributes out on the table right away. It was the things that had driven Mycroft mad when he lived at the house. Vyncentte had never minded.

John turned to Stamford, a look of shock clearly on his face. "You—you told him about me?"

Stamford gave a small knowing smile and chuckle. "Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John's voice rose and one could tell he was clearly upset.

Sherlock stepped in trying to calm him. "I did. Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult person to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." He adopted a tone of nonchalance. He tried to keep it in check, but unfortunately even he knew he liked to show off.

John shook his head, still incredulous. "How did you know about Afghanistan?"

Sherlock hid a small smile. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. We ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." John's eyes bugged at this last statement.

Sherlock was half-way out the door when the ex-soldier stopped him.

"Is that it?" he demanded.

Sherlock was confused. "Is that what?"

John inhaled clearly going impatient. "We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"

The smugness in Sherlock's mind was reaching the expression on his face. "Problem?"

The man was an entirely different species to John. "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

This was it… John had given him an opening. The urge to show-off could not be suppressed. He threw himself into a deduction that put all his past ones to shame. "I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic quite correctly, I'm afraid." He nodded towards John's cane, but he didn't stop he onslaught of words. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon."

With that he walked out of the door leaving John Watson standing alone in the lab feeling like a bomb shell had just fallen from the sky beside him.

* * *

It wasn't until they had moved in together and we're seated side-by-side in a cab that Sherlock really knew why he had allowed John Watson into his life. The tense man beside was obviously bursting to speak but the law of social standards restrained him from coming out right.

Sherlock broke the silence. "OK, you've got questions."

"Yeah," John reacted quickly. "Where are we going?"

"Crime scene," Sherlock responded quickly. It wasn't the question he'd wanted to hear. "Next?"

John shifted beside him. "Who are you?" he was very curious. "What do you do?"

Getting there. Sherlock wanted to see what John thought. "What do you think?"

John thought for a second. "I'd say…private detective." He was very hesitant.

"But…?" Sherlock pushed him.

John face narrowed in concentration. "But the police don't go to private detectives."

Good. He was smart. Could put two and two together. "I'm a consulting detective," he bragged. "Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?" John asked.

Sherlock smirked. "It means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs." John stated.

Sherlock wanted him to reflect on what he had already been privy to. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised."

"Yes." John agreed readily. "How did you know?" he demanded.

"I didn't know. I saw." It was words that he had said to someone else long ago at a park, sitting on a bench as the two of them look across the way at a man sitting on a bench. He pushed away the memory. "Your haircut," he tumbled into the point he wanted to make. So much safer here in the present than in the past. "The way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room –"

"A bit different from my day-" John interrupted him.

Sherlock ignored him and continued. "-said trained at Barts - so Army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand. Like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq." He finished with flourish.

John wasn't finished with him though. "You said I had a therapist."

Sherlock scoffed. "You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother. Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. You're looking for a flatshare. You wouldn't waste money on this - it's a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over 's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat your one luxury item like this. So it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

John nodded. "The engraving."

"Harry Watson-" Sherlock went on with his explanation. "Cleary a family member who's given you his old your father - this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara - who's Clara? Three kisses says romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then - six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left him, he would've kept it. People do, sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it - he left her. He gave the phone to you, that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How could you possibly know about the drinking?" John asked exasperated.

Sherlock grinned outright. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection - tiny little scuff marks round the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never seen a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right." He sat there smug and proud of what he had just done.

"I was right?" John asked. "Right about what?"

"The police don't go to amateurs." Sherlock stated. This was it. The reaction. He needed to know how John was going to react.

There was a second of silence. Then. "That was…amazing."

Sherlock's ear perked up. "You think so?" He didn't want John to 'just be polite'.

"Of course it was." John said it like it was the most obviously thing in the world. "It was extraordinary." He defended his first statement. "It was quite extraordinary."

Only one other person in world had ever praised his skills like that before. His little brother, who had always never without fail congratulated Sherlock on his simplest and most complex deductions was embodied by some strange trait John Watson. Ghosts of 'Fantastic!', "Amazing!", and "Incredible" echoed in his ears. His felt so at home with the army doctor beside him. "That's not what people normally say." He confessed to the man.

"What do people normally say?" John asked. He seriously wanted to know who on Earth could not be amazed by this man's skill.

Sherlock merely thought of whatever Vyncentte said to him whenever he wasn't in the mood for their deduction games or to talk, and he tried not to laugh. "Piss off."

John burst out in laughter, and Sherlock chuckled himself. It was the first time he had laughed in one month, four weeks, and three days.


	20. Of Ice and Walls

_Hello all, _

_Sorry for the lapse of a few days... homework caught up to me :P. Oh well, here's the next chapter. Hope you enjoy. Thanks for all the support._

_ Please Read and Review,_

_ V. Jenkins_

First there was Dr. Lewis. He was a nice, considerate man who liked to fill the silence with menial things. Other times he would sit waiting to listen. Vynce never talked, he liked instead to listen to the doctor's odd trivial topics. Dr. Lewis always ended up talking. But his profession was more of a medical one than psychological, so by the time the wound on Vynce's leg was healed, preparations for a different doctor were already in progress.

Next came Dr. Stone. He didn't talk. Ever. Each day he sat there waiting for Vyncentte to start talking, legal pad ready on his knee. Their sessions just ended with a two hour span of silence and the grave promise from Dr. Stone that he'd come back again tomorrow.

Even though Dr. Lewis had been resigned from the case, his still remained emotionally invested in the progress. And from his place on the sidelines, he knew there was no progress to be spoken of. For a week, he struggled with the desire to call the older brother that he knew had guardianship rights. He knew it wasn't his place, but something had to be done.

In the end, he made the call and got the voicemail again. This time Mr. Holmes called him in a few days instead of a few weeks. Lewis explained the situation as he saw it.

"I see your point," Mr. Holmes' tone was just as objective as if Dr. Lewis were talking to one of his own colleagues.

"I don't believe Stone's method is going to go anywhere." Lewis confessed.

Mycroft reflected on the doctor's words. This put him in a precarious position. He had been assured that Dr. Stone was the best in his field of work. This new information was not very welcoming for him to hear. Vynce had been at St. Bart's for about a month now. He wasn't sure how to proceed.

"Doctor, in your best opinion, what should be the next course of action?"

Lewis felt the frigidity in his words and still couldn't grasp how awkward that was to him. "I think he should walk." He answered honestly. "Get him physically mended. And then get him someone he feels confident talking to."

Mycroft realized he had taken to the man, especially his interest in his brother's well-being. "Dr. Lewis. I'm assigning Vyncentte to your care, instead."

"I'm specialized in medical care…" the man protested. "My psychological credentials are minimal at best."

"Well, then, we're in luck I suppose." Mycroft answered hollowly. "Get him to walk." He ended the conversation. And Dr. Lewis was met with a dial tone on his end.

* * *

Later that day, Lewis realized that Mr. Holmes had taken care of everything. Dr. Stone was informed of his dismissal, the records were updated with Lewis' name as practicing physician, and no questions were asked. He walked into Vynce's room at the time Dr. Stone usually visited.

It was the kid's eyes that told him how surprised he was to see Dr. Lewis instead of Dr. Stone. And slightly relieved. Lewis found himself thinking that that would have probably been the situation if he was in Vynce's place.

"Hello, Vynce." He entered the room and sat down on the chair. Vynce remained silent. Dr. Lewis wasn't taken by surprise. He tried again.

"How is your leg feeling today?" he asked. "Bad?" he waited. Vynce gave no physical response. "Good?"

Vynce slightly moved his head. Affirmative.

"Your stitches can probably come out in a week or two." Dr. Lewis informed him kindly. Another small stretch of silence. Should he mention talking to his brother? He didn't really know if that was smart or not. "I'm your doctor again." He told him. "Dr. Stone's done coming here."

"Good." The single word startled Dr. Lewis so much, he was afraid his ears were playing tricks on him.

"Excuse me?" It was reflex more than anything. In hindsight, he wasn't sure if he was coming off as rude or not.

Vynce just gave him a look that said 'You heard me, I'm not saying it again'. Lewis absorbed the fact that Vynce thought Dr. Stone's withdrawal was a positive thing. "Right… so, I'm going to be here instead of him." Another beat. "Maybe walking's on your agenda next. Are you up for that?"

"Will it get me out of bed?" Vynce's voice was raspy from disuse.

Dr. Lewis was so happy that his patient was actually talking. He was ready to let the kid out of bed at that second. "Yes. It will."

* * *

Even though Vyncentte had deemed to speak to him, he still didn't say much to Dr. Lewis during their sessions. If he didn't want to answer a question, he simply refused to speak. Lewis had more luck getting him back on his feet. Vynce had willingly let Lewis help him stand and put pressure on his right leg. Minutes in Vyncentte, tried to take control himself. He stumbled a bit, and it took ten minutes for Lewis to convince him that was enough for the day. Maybe it was because his leg was hurting that Vyncentte had chosen to agree.

There were good days and there were bad days. Dr. Lewis had his hands full with Vyncentte's temperamental mood swings. The toughest thing for him besides getting him to talk was getting him to eat. He had never met a person with such and irregular appetite. Most days he didn't touch the food that was brought to his room. Dr. Lewis was conflicted of what to do. Technically, he could just stick an supplemental IV in the boy's hand, but he wanted Vynce to eat real food. Because he could. He just didn't want to. Lewis wondered if it was an eating disorder, uncommon in boys but not improbable. So he tried to figure out the reasons behind it.

In addition, Dr. Lewis also tried harder to tap into Vyncentte's past. Simple questions posed in conversation did not suffice to gain him answers. He found that he had to turn to Mr. Holmes for information.

"I'm having difficulties getting him to open up," Lewis confessed.

Mycroft didn't find that hard to believe. "Not unimaginable."

Dr. Lewis started to explain what he wanted. "I find it easier to get him to talk when I have something to work off of. I was just wondering if you can give some things to start with."

Mycroft inhaled sharply from the other end of the phone. The Holmes family was always private. He didn't feel comfortable saying anything. "I'm not sure if that's the best option."

"But it will help me understand him better. Get to know the right approach to talking with him."

Mr. Holmes sighed on the other end. Lewis wondered if he was rubbing his temples at the moment. How strained his expression looked. He had only seen the man in person two times since it had all begun. "Alright." He said softly. "Alright. What do you need to know?"

Lewis shifted his position in his desk chair. "Anything you can give me."

"His…Our parents died… when he was seven." He started rambling off certain facts. "I raised him. We have a third brother-"

"Yes—I've met him."

Mycroft didn't enjoy being interrupted. "We have a third brother." He repeated. "Vynce was closer to him, I suppose… at least he liked him longer than he ever liked me." The words were somewhat bitter, but the emotions were hidden under the surface of coolness. "My brothers and I share the characteristic of acute insightfulness."

"Acute insightfulness?"

"Powers of observation…" Mycroft went on to explain. "We see things, put the pieces together, and make deductions from what we see. But Vynce was different in a way…"

"How so?"

"The more I've explored the information the more I've been able to formulate an opinion." He paused. "I have a hypothesis that he cannot identify the parts of what he observes. He is only able to see the whole. Yet his power of deduction is far keener than either mine or my brother's. He's ignorant of the powers of his own mind, and I'm afraid he has no control over it. His memory is strong, and his mind is impressionable without him being conscience of that fact."

Dr. Lewis tried to understand what he was hearing. He'd have to think about it some. It got jotted down on a notepad close to the phone. "Anything else?"

Mycroft thought for a moment. "He's different than me." He finally said. "Vynce feels emotions. Feels them to greater extents than I thought was possible for our family. I think that what made the difference between him coming here and ending up…" In jail. He didn't want to finish the phrase aloud. "Let's just say acute empathy saved him that night."

"Thank you… very nice—um, so when you say-"

Mycroft stopped him. "I think that's enough for today." His voice was somber and quiet.

Dr. Lewis hadn't thought for a moment that this conversation could have been hard for the man he regarded as cold and distant. "I'm sorry." It came out without him thinking.

"No apologies." Mr. Holmes responded, his voice regaining some of its strong control. "Good day to you doctor." Another phone conversation was ended.

* * *

Dr. Lewis stepped into Vynce's room the next day, rather nervous to see how Vynce would respond to the new information he was now privy to. He sat again in the chair by the window. Vynce sat on top of his bedcovers. T-shirt, jeans, and a mess of scruffy hair. His cheekbones looked hollow and his eyes were tired. Lewis wondered if Vynce had slept at all the night before.

"How are you today?" Dr. Lewis asked.

Vyncentte didn't answer. He laid down on the mattress without answering. It was going to be a difficult day.

Lewis leaned back into his chair, trying to figure out how to say what he wanted to say. "I heard you were pretty young when your parents died," he started. "Seven, was it? That must have been difficult."

Vynce shifted his position on the bed, yet didn't speak.

"Do you remember them?" Lewis asked. "I'm not sure if I would have, if I was in your position, which I'm not of course, so…" he trailed off. "Just wanted to know if it bothered you at all or not. Not knowing your parents."

If Dr. Lewis had had the right vantage point, he would have seen the pained expression that his patient was hiding from him. Vyncentte carefully kept his face turned away towards the wall.

"What about your brother? Not your oldest one, the other one. Sherlock, was it? Do you miss him much? I haven't seen him around here." He was talking to Vynce's back now. "I'd thought he would have visited at least."

It's not like the other one visited either, Vyncentte thought grimly to himself. His finger traced the stitching on the bed covers.

"Well, um… I'm sure he'll come by soon then." Dr. Lewis continued. "About your older brother…"

"I want to walk today." Vynce cut in rather abruptly. He wanted the talking to stop. If that meant having their session today consist of walking up and down the hallways, then he was fine with that. Anything to make the words stop. "I want to walk today." He started to get up from the bed.

Dr. Lewis moved quickly from his seat, ready to help him with whatever he needed. Vynce wasn't feeling very amenable at the moment. Pushing away the hand, he took the steps on his own. He wandered towards the hallway, Dr. Lewis trailing behind.


	21. The Visit and the Blog

_Hello all, _

_ Thanks for all the support. Here's another chapter. Been working around homework trying to get this one done. Hope you all enjoy. _

_Please Read and Review!_

_V. Jenkins_

It was three months, two weeks, five days, ten hours, nine minutes, and thirty seven seconds that had passed before Vyncentte saw Mycroft. And under the circumstances, he really wasn't sure if he wanted to see him at all. The course of the last few weeks had developed a sense of normalcy in Vynce's life again. He could walk, he adopted his normal patterns of daily life, and he no longer felt the menacing grip of the words that had made him act in ways he didn't like to think about. He felt normal again. So much in fact, that he had told Dr. Lewis, he didn't want the medications anymore. Lewis had said he'd think it over and get back to him.

Mycroft had judged that he was ready for a visit at last. Here they were in a secluded room. Vynce on one side of the table, Mycroft on the other. Silence was their companion for the first ten minutes.

Then, "I don't belong here." Vynce said quietly.

Mycroft carelessly looked over towards the clock on the wall, registering the time. "A matter of perception." He responded drily. His time was precious, he could only spare so much here. "You're still not… there yet."

Vynce looked down at the time. "I'm never going to be 'there'. At least not for you. I know how you're going to play this out."

Mycroft sighed impatiently. "Your mind's still…"

"Screw my mind." Vynce cut in abruptly. "I won't think then if that's what's making you so worried. If it's even worry that you're feeling. Giving that you're choosing to feel something today that is."

No reaction was present on his brother's face. Vynce realized the masks were back now. Back for good. He changed the subject. "Dr. Lewis says you've asked to stop taking your medicine."

Vynce silently cursed in his mind. He had forgotten that probably everything he said to Dr. Lewis had probably made its way to Mycroft. "I feel normal again." He explained. "I want to stop."

Mycroft had chosen not to hear a word of what Vynce had just said. "I'd advised him to keep you on the regiment."

Vynce wanted to leave. He thought about his position, where he was, what his future looked like, and he didn't like it. Being confronted with what sat before him, Vyncentte was certain he didn't want to go home either. He sat quiet. Mycroft kept looking at the clock, and it pissed him off.

"Well, I'm obviously wasting your time," Vynce observed. "So why don't you just leave? Okay?"

Mycroft tore his eyes from the object. "Apologies." He responded quietly. "I seem to be distracted today."

Vynce wasn't taking any of it. "Leave." He ordered.

* * *

Dr. Lewis came into Vynce's room that afternoon. The teenager flat out ignored him and instead looked out the window down below. The doctor could feel the black mood that emanated from him. He felt a slight twinge of regret. He had thought that Vyncentte was ready to receive his brother. The events of the day had proven otherwise.

"Vyncentte," Dr. Lewis came in and sat on the chair. "We need to talk."

"No we don't." Vynce replied sullenly.

Dr. Lewis sighed. He wondered briefly how he was going to bridge the gap of this 'betrayal'. Leaving, he came back after a short while with a small cup of pills. Vynce barely looked at his hand. He was more interested in the outside.

The cup held three pills. One was a vitamin supplement. Lewis thought it a wise thing to add to Vynce's meds due to his lack of regular food intake. It was just healthier and logical to dl. The second was something for stress. The doctor could only imagine what Vyncentte was feeling in the tumult of events. Having nothing stable anymore must be frustrating to the extreme. The third was a low dose of Haldol. A drug used to combat schizophrenia. It was a shot in the dark. Through conversation, Lewis had tried to get Vyncentte to take him through 'that night'. Why did he do it? Did he feel in control? The conclusion, Vynce had not felt in control… it seemed as if a third party was trying to rule his actions.

Lewis was hesitant to stay with that diagnosis. The medicine was a trial. Vynce seemed normal. Lewis couldn't be sure if it was the Haldol or the fact his life had been stabilized again. In a way, he had wished Mr. Holmes had allowed the medicine to be taken away for a brief time. Just to see.

"Spring is coming in full speed," Lewis commented. "It's actually warm out today."

He could see the desire in Vynce's eyes to be out there.

"Do you want to go outside?"

Vynce nodded. Dr. Lewis made a decision. "Maybe after you eat lunch, you can go out for a few hours."

"I'm not hungry."

"Fine." Lewis would give up on the food, just for today, if he could get the second thing. "You can go out after you take your medications." He offered Vynce the small cup. "If you take it, you can go out." He promised.

Vynce scowled at it. "I'd rather take the food."

"It gets you outside," Lewis reminded him.

Coldly, Vynce took it and tipped it into his mouth. Lewis handed him a water glass. With that he had won the right to go outside.

"Do you want company?" Lewis asked him.

Vynce shook his head 'no'. He had lapsed back into silence.

Alone outside, Vynce made sure no one could see him when he spat out three round pills from his mouth and chucked them in a bush. Dr. Lewis was nice and all, but Vynce was sick of this. He wanted out. He wanted to get on with life. But he had to figure out how to do that. So he decided he would bide his time and make a plan.

* * *

Mycroft must have felt bad. Or not. Whatever. It didn't make any difference because somehow Vynce was able to get his electronic tablet. He was able to get a lot of things. A wayward remark about an item to Dr. Lewis would result in it showing up a few days later. Vynce was making the best about the liaison he knew was between the doctor and Mycroft.

So far, he got clothes, books, his art supplies, and his mobile. Yesterday, Dr. Lewis had come in with the tablet. The problem with St. Bart's (besides the fact that he had to stay there) was that he was left with an awful amount of time on his own. Which he guessed he didn't mind, but things got dull pretty fast.

He surfed the web. Clicking web page after web page. Social sites. Academic sites. News. Headlines. Media. "Hat-man and Robin". A striking photo of Sherlock stared back at him from the screen. His throat felt dry. He read the article. So Sherlock was famous…he had caught the attention of the media. Famous internet detective consulted by the masses for his intellectual prowess.

There were links at the bottom of the article. He recognized the one that would bring him to Sherlock's website 'The Science of Deduction'. Vynce had tried for a year or so to try to convince him that nobody wanted to know the different types of tobacco in the world. It wasn't interesting. It was a battle he lost constantly. Sherlock couldn't comprehend why people wouldn't find the information compelling…. Or useful. Occasionally, Vynce would go on and see what messages were left in his consultation box. Nothing really of much interest.

Vynce didn't recognize the second web-link though. He tapped the blue hyperlink letting a new browser tab load. It was a blog. "The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson". The right side bar sported a photo of a man Vynce was unfamiliar with. He was smiling and something Vynce couldn't describe was evident in the eyes. Something like an adventurous spirit. He looked legitimately happy.

He scrolled through the page, clicking through links. 'A Strange Meeting' and another 'My New Flatmate'. He read through them quickly picking up all the details. So Sherlock was pulling halves with someone and renting out a flat in someplace named 'Baker Street'. This Dr. John Watson was his flatmate.

Vynce briefly wondered how long that was going to last. Nobody else he knew except himself could stand Sherlock's strange eccentricities. He clicked on a tab titled 'A Study in Pink'. It was longer than the others, a detailed account of a police investigation Sherlock had consulted for. It seemed as if his brother had dragged this John along with him. He flipped back to some of the oldest posts. The ones before 'The Strange Meeting'. Vynce concluded that they were ultimately sad.

John was an ex-army doctor. Invalided back to London by a wound, this blog was meant to help him get back on his feet. There was a definite change of tone from these posts and the ones that mentioned Sherlock.

He studied the picture again imprinting the face in his mind. John Watson. The fact he was now involved in Sherlock's life made him interesting. And anything interesting was very welcome in Vyncentte's life. Especially now.


	22. Homecoming

_ Hello all, _

_ Here's the next chapter for you all. Proud that I got this one done around my homework time. :) Please enjoy._

_ Read and Review,_

_ V. Jenkins_

At six months, they had decided to let Vynce leave St. Bart's. 'They' as in Mycroft and Dr. Lewis. Vynce had viewed them as a team for so long now that they seemed inseparable in his mind. Both of them were looming over his thoughts, actions, and feelings. He was beginning to feel too restrained again, and when the day came for him to leave and go back to the estate house, there was an insurmountable pressure built up in his chest again.

Mycroft had come in one of his cars. Vyncentte picked up the rest of his things from around the room and placed them in his bags. He wanted to leave. He didn't want to go back with Mycroft. The last thing he picked up was his mobile. Instead of putting it in his backpack, he slipped it in his pocket. Something had been lurking in the back of his mind that he wanted to try. But he was going to act on it later.

He zipped the bag shut, shouldered it, and looked around the empty hospital room. He had spent_ months_ of his life here. Walking away now just seemed…strange. Strange…but exhilarating all the same. Grabbing his second bag, he walked to the elevator and took it down to the ground floor. Mycroft was waiting. Dr. Lewis was by his side. It was evident they were conversation when Vynce was busy upstairs. The doctor stopped talking as Vynce entered hearing range. Meaning Vynce walked up to an awkward silence.

Dr. Lewis gave a small half-smile. "Suppose this is goodbye, then."

Vynce shifted the strap on his shoulder. "I suppose it is."

Mycroft uncomfortably waited for them to finish their polite formalities about the fore coming departure. Yet Vynce realized that he had nothing left to say.

"Um—goodbye." Vynce offered weakly. Dr. Lewis shook his hand.

"Goodbye, Vynce, and good luck."

"Thanks."

Mycroft was looking at his pocket watch, and Vyncentte wondered why on earth was he always acting like there was a shortage of time. He picked up his second bag and started towards the door not even bothering wait for his brother. Mycroft would follow readily. Vynce knew he was probably itching to get to his office. Who was he to stop him?

Stan was standing outside of the car waiting from them. Vynce didn't surrender his bags to him, instead he dumped them in the trunk himself before getting the car. He sat in the passenger seat. Mycroft always sat in the back, so it shouldn't have been a problem. Stan raised his eyebrow and exchanged a glance with Mr. Holmes.

Mycroft simply shook his head and got in the car. Stan lowered himself into the driver's seat and glanced to his left, feeling somewhat intimidated. He'd had never driven with someone up front by him. Stan's eyes sought the rearview mirror.

"Where to sir?" he asked.

"The house," Mycroft answered simply, his face contorting in an expression of unhappiness. "Of course."

"Why not your office?" Vynce interjected. "It's closer."

Mycroft frowned. "What do you mean?"

"It's obviously where you want to go so…allons-y shall we?"

Stan was ultimately confused in which direction to drive.

"The house, Stan." Mycroft ordered grimly. He propped his elbow up on the door rest and supported his head. Already, his head started to hurt. The pills bottle Dr. Lewis had given him felt heavy in his suit coat's inner pocket.

* * *

Eileen was waiting at the estate. She was so happy to see Vyncentte walk into the front door, and also very angry as well. She couldn't believe the last thing she had heard from him had been a lie. Although her love for the boy and her fear of what had happened at the Manette St. flat had softened her heart.

"Oh you reckless, reckless thing." She greeted him pulling him into a hug. Vynce dropped his bag out of shock and uncomfortably let himself be enfolded into her arms. "Why on earth did you go to London?" She released him, letting the rhetorical question hang in the air. One brief scan over him, and, "You're thin as a rod."

"Thanks…" Vynce's voice raised slightly as if asking a question. The presence behind him told him that Mycroft had followed him into the house. _Why doesn't he leave for work, I'm home now, _Vynce thought to himself. He gathered up his bags again, ready to go upstairs and put his things away.

"Wait." Mycroft stopped him.

Vynce sighed. "What?"

"It's one." Mycroft informed him of the time, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out the prescription bottle.

Vynce felt frozen. He had been successfully dodging his medication for the last few months at St. Bart's. Mycroft would be more difficult to trick. His brother's pale hands unscrewed the cap of the bottle and tipped out a pill. He held it out to Vyncentte who didn't move.

Mycroft sighed. "We aren't going to do this, Vynce. Take the pill."

Vynce took it from his hand, somehow Eileen had gotten him a glass of water. Gingerly, he placed it on his tongue, closing his mouth, and took a sip of water. Skillfully, he managed to get it under his tongue and only swallow the water.

"Good." Mycroft spoke quietly. Then he eyed him seriously. "Now this time actually swallow the pill."

Vynce's face paled. Chagrined, he took another gulp of water, swallowing that hated pill. Satisfied, Mycroft replaced the cover on the bottle. "Well, then. That's settled." His voice was laced with some sort of antipathy. "I'll be back sometime tonight." He readjusted his coat, grabbed an umbrella from the stand by the door and exited the house.

Outside the house, Mycroft repressed the urge to take the bottle from his pocket and fling it far away from him. _It was needed_, he reminded himself. He couldn't help it, no matter how much he wanted it to be different. Every time he looked at his brother all he could think about was blood and knives. He couldn't think about soup or snow, chess or jokes. None of that came to mind anymore. He found himself looking at his pocket watch he had received at Christmas constantly, reading the inscription, trying to bring back memory of feelings he couldn't feel anymore. But he never could, no matter how frustrated he became.

Sighing, he stepped from the front porch and slowly made his way to the car. He had to call the Italian ambassador today. And then meet with the Queen. He was in for a busy day.

* * *

The first thing Vynce did when he entered his room was drop his bags and fling himself onto the bed. It was good to be back in his own room. Everything was pretty dusty and looked as if no one had dared touch anything in his absence. It looked like no one had come up here, but Vynce saw some foot prints on the floor. They didn't proceed past a yard from the door. It was as if someone had walked in, stood there for a time, turned, and walked out. He stopped there. He didn't want to go any further than that in his deduction. So he pushed the thoughts away.

He pulled out his mobile, and pressed the contact he had not used in six months. He fingers skillfully manipulated the keyboard.

** Hey**

** VH**

Twenty minutes went by, and Vynce wondered if Sherlock had stopped answering text messages as well as phone calls. But then his mobile went off, quelling his fears.

**What do you need?**

** SH**

** Get me out of here.**

** VH**

** The hospital?**

** SH**

** The house. Mycroft's driving me mad.**

** VH**

** I don't know what I can do.**

** SH**

** Well, do something at least. **

** VH**

** There might be something…I have to do some research first.**

** SH**

** Hurry up then.**

** VH**

The conversation ended there for now. Vynce wondered what Sherlock had to do 'research' on before letting him know what could potentially get him out of Holmes estate house. Whatever is was, he was pretty sure Sherlock would pull through. He always did in the end.


	23. What It Takes to Say Yes

_Hello all, _

_ Sorry for the slight wait on this one. I had it finished for a few days, just couldn't seem to find the time to post it. Oh well, here it is :) Please enjoy. _

_ Thanks for your support and please remember to review,_

_ V. Jenkins_

As always, when Sherlock decided to apply himself to something, he delivered. After excusing himself from John's presence for an afternoon, he paid a secret visit to the estate house to see his brothers. John knew about Mycroft. He was still in the dark about Vyncentte, and Sherlock wasn't willing to remedy that situation without good cause. So the fact he would go to his childhood home to see the brother he despised was not an intelligent thing to tell his new flatmate. He had said it was something to do with investigating the preliminaries of a potential case. John had simply shrugged and let him leave the flat, no questions asked.

Now he sat in a room in the Holmes estate, Mycroft in another chair, Vyncentte restlessly pacing by the window.

"Darren Sherringford?" Mycroft repeated the name Sherlock had given him.

"Yes," Sherlock responded, rather irritated at this point. "Darren Sherringford. Uncle to our mother. Lives in America. Wants to get to know… 'Violet's boys'. He wants to take on Vyncentte for the year."

Mycroft discarded the slip of paper Sherlock had given him, letting it fall onto the side table beside him. "Why the sudden interest?"

Sherlock shrugged, "I suppose what it always is for normal people…sentiment."

His eldest brother frowned. "I wouldn't advise it."

"Why not?" Sherlock wasn't letting this go without a battle.

"He's not an adult," Mycroft argued. "International travel. Staying with someone he doesn't know. That _we _don't know."

"He's fifteen." Sherlock stated. "Going on sixteen. He'll be fine. Mr. Sherringford's amiable at best. He's sent a letter." He pulled it from his inner blazer pocket and handed it over.

Mycroft slipped out the pages and unfolded them. He eyes quickly scanned what he held in his hands.

_** To Mr. S. Holmes**_

_** I admit I was greatly surprised to receive your correspondence, granted that I had not heard from my niece's family since she had left America to marry. Still, I am happy to know that her family is well and that her sons are prospering even after her untimely death.**_

_** I had loved Violet very much when she was a girl. As you know (or maybe don't know—I'm not sure) her father, your grandfather, had died when she was very young. I helped her mother out and always considered Violet's well-being vital to my happiness. I miss her greatly… in fact I think her marriage to Mathias was a mistake… although I'd like to see you and your brothers and judge again for myself.**_

_** Today, I am still an inhabitant of Louisiana, an owner of a prosperous fishery. I also pride myself of being the genealogist of our families, so I have known of your existence. I was certain you have never heard of me. We must share the interest in learning about our ancestors if you have tracked me down.**_

_** In your previous letter, you had mentioned a younger brother. I know you have another as well from my own research. I presume he is busy with his career and you yourself made mention to not being able to get away from your own profession. But you alluded to the possibility that your younger brother may be interested in staying a term here in America. I'd like to formally invite him right now here in this letter.**_

_** Please send a response so I can make the proper preparations.**_

_** Thank you and best wishes,**_

_** Darren Sherringford**_

Mycroft folded the pages, creasing them carefully and kept the letter in his hands. He spoke finally. "Absolutely not." He ruled, leaning on the authority he held due to the law. "I'm legal guardian."

"And I'm a few years from adulthood." Vyncentte entered the conversation.

Mycroft rotated in his seat to look at him. "And your situation right now is a precarious one. I'm uncomfortable having you half a world away if anything arose."

"I thought the English called it the 'Pond'. Seems short in my mind." Vynce muttered. Mycroft still heard him.

Sherlock placed himself between them in the conversation. "I actually think it's a good idea."

Mycroft gave him a thin ironic smile. "You would. It was your idea."

"Yet he gets experience in the real world," Sherlock argued. "Someone who's able to pay attention to him and not be distracted by a time-consuming profession. Vynce gets a vacation. And you have time to re-evaluate things."

Mycroft bristled in indignation. "I'm sure there are beneficial aspects to it, Sherlock, I don't deny it-"

"Good." Sherlock pulled out an aeroplane billet. "That's why I purchased this. Mr. Sherringford has been informed of his impending guest, and I advise Vyncentte to start packing now. A year is a long time."

"No, no," Mycroft shook his head. "Sherlock you can't do that."

"I can and I did." Sherlock informed him. "Vynce. Here." He handed the ticket to his younger brother.

"Thank you." Vynce took it readily.

"He is not going to have clearance to fly, I grant you that." Mycroft warned the two of them.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "For once could you not be the British Government?" He gave his attention to Vynce. "Happy late Birthday, sorry I didn't visit."

In Vynce's opinion, this made up for anything in the past that had gone wrong between them. He studied the ticket. London to New York. New York to Atlanta. Atlanta to New Orleans. A sudden sense of smug satisfaction rested in his chest.

"Mr. Sherringford's already been in contact with me." Sherlock answered. "He expecting you. Your plane leaves in a week and a half. I will be here to see you off at Heathrow."

Mycroft realized he had lost complete control of the situation. He was going to do a background check on Darren Sherringford. And his business. And the area of Louisiana he would be staying in. Then he think some more. He was pretty certain he would still say no. But Vynce wasn't surrendering the ticket easily.

* * *

The time went by far too quickly. Vynce was all prepared to leave. His luggage was packed and he had started counting down the hours already three days before his plane was set to depart. Mycroft had been busy with his own types of research. During that time the only thing he had convinced himself about was that he was conflicted about the situation.

Darren Sherringford seems to be a responsible business owner, an upstanding citizen, and a person with no blemishes on his record whatsoever. It was disappointing and left him with nothing to point at when he would tell his brothers he had decided against the trip. He could imagine it now. Sherlock would argue that he 'ruling' was illogical, that there was no legitimate reasoning why Mycroft should be against it. Of course, Vynce would have the same reaction.

The morning of the day of departure found Mycroft still undecided. Sighing he left the study, walking down the hallway, hands in his pockets. He pondered over the issue. First, he admitted that he really didn't want Vynce to feel like he was in 'lockdown'. He shouldn't feel like that. Second, it would be irresponsible to let Vyncentte to go be off on his own, especially in light of recent events. Things could go wrong… People could get hurt. It was his duty to make sure that did not happen. The two sides of the argument were so balanced he didn't know what to do.

He stopped walking. It struck him that the house was so quiet. That had been the situation for months now. Mycroft had thought that when Vyncentte had come back it would have changed. It was at this moment that Mycroft realized that this was not the situation. In fact there was no sound whatsoever. Things had changed. Greatly. There was the possibility that it was not going to ever be the same again. And he needed help to accept that. Because he found that he couldn't. Not by himself.

He turned once again into the study… ready to write a letter to the man he was entrusting to care for his brother. Mycroft pulled out the letter he had taken from Sherlock. He realized what had changed his mind. It was because the man had written on the paper about Violet. And the love he had had for the girl. Perhaps, that was the small light at the end of the tunnel that some people would call 'hope'. Vyncentte might learn what it felt like to be loved with the man that had loved their mother like a daughter.


	24. American Adventure

_Hello all, _

_ Wow it's been a really long week :( Seriously need the schedule to relax so I can get back to writing. Uni's so time consuming. Special thanks to Kay (erinhiddlestoner) who's keeping me sane. And thanks you all of you who keep coming back and reading. _

_Please Read, Enjoy, and Review_

_V. Jenkins_

Sherlock kept his word and showed at the estate the morning of Vynce's scheduled departure. At eight precisely he rang the doorbell, a cab stalling behind him. The door was opened by Mycroft of all people. He greeted his brother with a cold, stony face and flakes of eyes in his eyes.

"Sherlock."

"Mycroft," a moment of chill silence proceeded. "Where's Vynce?"

Mycroft fingered the handle of an umbrella that stood in its stand by the door. "Upstairs. Getting the last of his things." He responded. Something twinged in his chest as he looked again at his brother. It was illogical really. But Mycroft now regarded Sherlock as the reason why Vynce was leaving. Something in him couldn't forgive him that.

"How are things with the good doctor?" he changed the subject, turning to polite conversation.

Sherlock's eyes flashed daggers. "Tolerable. Although I'd appreciate it if you didn't bribe my flatmates."

"So he told you about our little encounter." Mycroft wasn't surprised. "And what did you do when you found out?"

"I told him he was stupid for not taking you on. We could have split the sum." He answered. "He was rather shocked when you turned out to not be criminal mastermind. Quite disappointed actually." Sherlock adjusted his coat. "In the future, I warn you to not meddle with my profession."

"I can't consult the 'consulting' detective?" Mycroft smirked.

Sherlock scowled. "You weren't consulting. You were spying."

Mycroft was saved from having to justify himself by the appearance of Vyncentte. Vynce had brought down his valise and everything he was taking from home. All his things were packed away, and he was ready to leave. The sight was Sherlock visibly relieved some of the tension in his eyes.

"You showed up." Vynce remarked.

"In the flesh," Sherlock assured him. "Cab's waiting. Have you got everything?"

"Yeah." Their youngest brother looked at his luggage realizing he was on the brink of leaving. "I'm ready."

He picked up a suitcase. The cabbie had stepped out of the car and started helping with the bags. Sherlock even pitched in and carried one item. Mycroft stood sentinel at the door watching the progress. Between the three of them, the car was packed in no time, and it was time for the customary short goodbyes.

Vynce allowed himself to be hugged by Eileen. He muttered a soft 'goodbye' and a 'be back before you even know it' and pulled away. Mycroft stopped him just as he was about to walk out the door.

"I have something." Mycroft said quietly. He pulled out a thick envelope and gave it to Vynce. "Give it to Mr. Sherringford when you get there."

Vynce took it…questioning what exactly it was, yet realizing he really didn't care. He slipped it into his backpack without a word.

He didn't really know what phrase to use, so he settled with, "See you later."

Mycroft fingered the chain of his pocket watch. "Mind Mr. Sherringford." He ordered, turning away from the door. Uninvited to Heathrow, this was the last time Mycroft would see Vynce for a year. He wasn't good with goodbyes either.

* * *

Traveling as an unaccompanied minor was easier when you were a teenager instead of just a kid. Adults tended to leave you alone because they figured you could take care of yourself. Vynce didn't mind…and the rare checkup from a flight attendant was fine by him. The flights were long though. And tedious. He had a book that he finished on the first leg of the journey. Then he had sketched a few pictures in one of his bound sketchbooks. He discarded it after a while… when it became monotonous. In the end, he settled with just looking out the window. He'd never flown before, and the sight from the sky was intoxicating.

The planes were all on time. No prominent delays. Eleven hours and twenty-five minutes later, Vynce was getting off the plane in the New Orleans airport. At the baggage claim, he found his bags and stood of to the side. He didn't entirely know how he was going to meet Mr. Sherringford. If the man was even there. He scanned the crowd. Some people coming off the plane with him were finding family and friends, enthusiastically greeting them walking away. Other business persons grabbed there bag and hurriedly rushed off to the locations they needed to go. One lone man stood by a pillar scanning the crowd himself.

He was older. Gray haired with a bushy beard. Sun-burnt with crinkled skin around his eyes as though he smiled a lot… or squinted a lot. He stood apart from the crowd, not greeting anyone else.

Vynce gathered his bags and walked closer to the man. Hesitant if this was person he was looking for, Vynce approached cautiously.

"Mr. Sherringford?" he asked politely.

The man's attention snapped towards him. His blue eyes flashed as he scanned Vynce's face. "Violet's boy?" His voice was gruff with a hard southern accent.

"Er—yeah." He shook the man's hand. "I'm Vyncentte." He was uncomfortably unaware of how British his voice sounded. Most of what he could here in the place were muddled, American voices all jumbled from the different conversations going on.

"Nice to meet you, son." Mr. Sherringford offered to take a bag, and Vynce passed over the lightest of his. "The truck's outside. It's a short drive to the Big House. Hopefully you're not too tired of traveling yet."

"No, no." Vynce assured the man. "Not at all." He followed the man to one of the doors and out into the bright sunlight of New Orleans. Squinting, Vynce realized he wasn't ready for that bright light. London seemed dull in comparison to this.

"Come on. Keep up." Vynce was several paces behind Mr. Sherringford, and he quickened his pace to catch up. They approached a beaten light blue pick-up truck, and Mr. Sherringford placed the bag he had been carrying into the back. Vynce placed the rest of his things beside it.

The interior of the truck was really no better than the exterior. The seats were tattered and springy, the dashboard was scratched. Most disconcerting of all for Vyncentte was that the driver and passenger positions were switched. But this was Americas after all. Vynce wondered how old the car was.

With a rumble and a sputtering growl, the engine started with a turn of the key. The older man skillful steered the vehicle out of its parking spot and to the road.

"So," With one hand on the wheel, Mr. Sherringford pulled out a cigar from his shirt pocket and lit it. "How was the flight?" he asked gruffly through the cigar.

Vynce felt uncomfortable. Did Mr. Sherringford really want him there or not? "Um… good."

"Good. That's a beast of a flight to take. How many legs did you have?"

"Three," Vynce answered. "London to New York, New York to Atlanta, and Atlanta to here."

Mr. Sherringford nodded. "And how do you like America?"

Vynce didn't know how he could really respond yet. So far he liked it, so he answered. "It's cool."

"Cool…" the old man repeated somewhat bemused. "Cool…you young kids confuse me sometimes with your adjectives. Yet somehow I still put up with all of you."

"All of us?"

"Mmh, yeah. Most of my workers are your age or college kids. You'll meet some of them once we reach the Big House. Dinner time will be eminent and they all come crawling from the docks when they smell the food being brought out."

* * *

Mr. Sherringford was right. The smell of food did bring a crowd of people to the "Big House", which ended up really just being Mr. Sherringford's residence. That evening's meal was what the people called 'barbeque', grilled meat glazed over with a sweet, tangy sauce. The food was set up on wooden tables on the front lawn and the dock workers milled around fixing their plates and sitting off together in groups. Some nodded to Vynce in a friendly way as they came across him, most said hello to Mr. Sherringford.

"Who do we have here?" A lithe young woman with razor cut hair stopped in front of them, balancing a plate in one of her hands. A guy around the same age as her stopped behind her.

Mr. Sherringford stayed relaxed, lounging in the chair he had settled himself on. "Rose, this is Vyncentte, a relation of mine from a across the ocean. He's come to stay for a while."

Rose's eyes locked on Vynce's face. It was difficult to read her expression.

The guy entered the conversation, asking Mr. Sherringford a question. "Is he going to work?"

Vynce was getting uncomfortable being spoken of like an object that was just put on display. Which made Mr. Sherringford's next move make he like him even more.

The old man shrugged and glanced at him for an answer.

Vynce cleared his throat. "I'd expect so yeah."

"British?" Rose raised an eyebrow sardonically.

"Don't mind her." The guy excused his friend's behavior and stepped up to introduce himself. "I'm Skipper. I go to the college around here. Uncle's good enough to let me work down at the docks for income."

"Uncle?" Vynce was shocked. Was Skipper a relative of his? Mr. Sherringford was his own great-uncle.

Mr. Sherringford explained. "That's what the workers call me. 'Uncle' or 'Darren'. You can do the same." He instructed himself. Darren had switched from a cigar over to a pipe of shaved tobacco. It had not gone unnoticed that the only way Vyncentte had addressed so far was 'Mr. Sherringford'. "Your approach so far has been strangely formal." He chuckled between the smoke curls that floated from his lips.

Darren was his true uncle. Yet, Vynce couldn't bring himself to use that title. Not yet anyway. Retreating to the veranda, the old man waved him off to get food and meet the workers. Skipper took him on as a comrade.

"That's Jimmy," he pointed to a short, stout figure who was chatting with another man. Rose was coldly trailing behind them now. Skipper was enjoying giving the introduction of his co-workers. "The second guy is Pete Fleming." He informed Vynce. Pete was slightly older, in his later twenties or early thirties. "He's worked here for nine years." Skipper added as if following the trail of Vyncentte's thoughts.

Skipper introduced everyone. Kevin, Jason, Jeffery, Paul, Tony, Jack, Roger, and Fred. Most of the workers were men. There were only two other women in the crowd besides Rose.

"Lori and Roxy." Skipper pointed them out. "And that's everyone."

Vyncentte's head was swimming with names and faces by now. He felt slightly overwhelmed. Everyone seemed to be friendly, talking to each other, but also sticking in together in groups of two or three.

"And you all work for Mr. Sherring- I mean Darren?" Vynce asked, catching himself on the name.

"Yep," Skipper grinned. "He's a generous one. Room and board is free if you're a worker. You get good food and are taken care of with a generous wage."

"You earn it." Rose spoke for the second time. "It's no easy work. You have to be a certain something to take it on." Her eyes examined Vynce again, and he could read her mind. She's doubted he was capable of it. It's a good thing then that he had come here to live and not work.

"Are you going to stay in the boarding house?" Skipper asked.

"No," voice answered for him. Darren had come up behind them. "He's staying in the 'Big House'. But you'll be able to see as much of him as you please. I believe it's time thought to let him unpack some of his things and recover from his journey."

Skipper nodded amiably, "See ya, Vynce." He retreated to the larger group mingling about the lawn. Rose followed without saying goodbye.

"You'll have to forgive Rose, Vyncentte." Darren sighed, watching her walk away. "She's always had a rough time with new people. Come in into the house then. They leave when they're full and tired." He references the crowd outside.

* * *

Inside the house was spectacular. Not lavish at all like the Holmes estate, but more rustic and down to earth. The living room was dim and earth-toned and Vynce's bags had been piled by the side of a well-worn couch. Darren awkwardly waited by the steps.

"Your room's… upstairs. I'll show it you if you like." He offered, his deep treble of a voice rumbled from his chest.

Vynce picked up his suitcases. "Yeah, sure."

His room was on the second floor. A twin bed was tucked in the corner, a pile of clean sheets folded and waiting on the mattress. Against a wall was a desk, by another was a chest of drawers.

"It's not much," Darren commented.

"It's perfect." Vynce objected. "I like. Very very much so." He set his bags down on the floor.

"Alright…" Darren hadn't even ventured in the room. "I'll be downstairs if you need anything."

"Okay," Vynce nodded. He turned to his bags, and then remembered something suddenly. "Oh, um… Darren?"

"Yes." The man stopped in his tracks.

"I'm supposed to—um," he fumbled with his backpack zipper. "I'm uh—supposed to give this to you." He handed Darren Mycroft's envelope.

Darren look at it suspiciously. "What is this?"

"I really dunno." Vynce confessed.

It was a larger envelope, and heavy in his hands. Darren ripped it open, glanced at the contents and took out a few shafts of paper. He read it. The wrinkles on his forehead becoming more pronounced at times and relaxing in others.

"Your eldest brother seems… thorough."

Vynce nodded. "That's Mycroft." He remarked bitterly.

Darren pulled another item from the inside. It was Vynce's prescription bottle.

"What's this for?" he asked Vynce.

"I'm really not sure anymore… overactive imagination?"

Darren tossed it to him. "Nothing a bit of sunshine and hard work can't fix. But I'll leave those things with you. Do with them what you have to."

Vynce caught them. He was finally responsible for his own health.

"And I don't know what your brother's thinking… maybe that you're gonna run me broke. But I'm not taking this from him either."

"Taking what?"

Darren pulled out a large wad of American cash from the envelope.

"Oh."

Darren's face was flinty. "This here's yours too." He handed it to Vyncentte. "Don't spend it all in one place."

"Okay, um—thanks." Vynce took it. What the heck was he going to do with that?

"Well, goodnight then."

"'Night." Darren's frame vanished from the doorway and Vynce could hear the footsteps of the man descending down the creaky stairs.

One thing was for certain. He was in charge of himself now. America had turned out to be this land of blissful opportunity. Thinking about the workers that had lined his great-uncle's lawn that evening, Vynce wondered if he should go out and try working with people like Skipper and Rose. It be a nice change. An extremely different one. He wasn't quite certain what he should do yet. He just knew whatever it was… it was going to be new.


	25. In Which There is a Dead Banker

_Hello all,_

_Managed to juggle this with homework and studying, so here it is. I hope you all enjoy. And thank you Rosemariecraig for the support!_

_ Please Read and Review, _

_ V. Jenkins_

Life sort of went on in a slow monotonous routine for the brothers Holmes. Mycroft continued to show up punctually to the office and then to the club. In his opinion, Sherlock managed to keep himself busy. Mycroft didn't need John as a spy to know that. There was the international case. The one with the Chinese smuggling network. The Black Lotus. Mycroft knew about the underground criminals. His people were trying to find a way to pin down key persons of the criminal web, yet somehow they all seemed to die or fortunately disappear before they could proceed with any plans to cut in. It was as if someone inside of his own office was leaking information. He had begun background checks after their second failed attempt. Yet, there was always that strange feeling that every action of his was being scrutinized and played upon. Past threats began to come back from his memory.

But now Sherlock was involved. Something about a dead banker and an old fellow from uni who had enlisted the consulting detective's help. And Mycroft pulled back his own involvement slightly. Enough to remain a phantom on the outskirts of the investigation. Mycroft wanted to see what Sherlock could do with one of the things that had been stressing himself for about a year.

Sherlock was only able to find out how and why the banker had died. An agile assassin sent to punish a greedy foot runner. His brother had not been able to get close enough to discover anything about the network or how to shut it down. On the final day of the case, Mycroft stayed close. But even with his vigilance, there was a situation. John somehow had got himself kidnapped. With a woman. Mycroft didn't have to act. Sherlock was just in time to safe everyone. But the 'general' had slipped away.

Mycroft had sent his men right away to detain this 'General Shan'. And they had found her with a bullet hole in her forehead. Before her was a laptop which was now dysfunctional. Nobody knew what had happened. But Mycroft knew the signs.

The next day all their leads had collapsed. The network seemed to have vanished in thin air. Mycroft was skeptical that the smuggling had just stopped overnight, and he was slightly taken aback of how quickly the power behind this network could make everything disappear.

This fear motivated him to get closer to Sherlock. For there were events happening around his brother that were beginning to make him worry. He visited Baker Street for the first time that week. He had timed it so that he knew John would be out of the house. He had not timed it to be right after an explosion.

As he sat in the chair in the parlor of 221 B. he could not help but study the debris that was scattered around the room. Glass and wood and the likes. It was mild destruction, yet something twisted in Mycroft's gut as he saw it.

Sherlock sat across from him, silent and stony faced. He was holding his violin, refusing to respond to what Mycroft had been explaining to him. Or asking him. Same difference. And this was the situation John walked into when he returned to the flat.

John slightly was taken aback by the presence of Mycroft in the flat, yet Mycroft just played with his umbrella and gave the good doctor a thin smile for a greeting.

"Sherlock." John's voice was shallow, as if he had been running.

"John." Sherlock's voice was low as if bored.

The doctor looked about at the wreckage, worriedly. "I saw it on the telly. Are you okay?"

Mycroft registered the concern in the man's voice and tucked it away for a later. Sherlock seemed to let it glide right over him.

"Me? What? Oh, yeah, fine. Gas leak apparently." He twang one of the violin's strings with the tip of his fingers. He turned back to Mycroft. "I can't."

"Can't?" Mycroft kept his voice level. He was amused. He knew Sherlock had been having one of his 'episodes' of boredom that morning.

"Stuff," Sherlock defended himself, "I've got on is just too big. Can't spare the time."

Mycroft knew it was a blatant lie and he wasn't happy to hear it. "Never mind your usual trivia. This is of national importance."

"How's the diet?" Sherlock went straight for the reliable weapon of the past, trying to change the topic.

Mycroft frowned. "Fine." The word was one staccato syllable. He turned to his brother's flatmate. "Perhaps you can get through to him, John?" Mycroft had almost forgotten how taxing Sherlock could be when he wanted to.

John had been caught off guard. "What?"

"I'm afraid my brother can be very intransigent." Mycroft commented drily, casting his brother a dark glance.

Sherlock's own expression darkened. "If you're so keen. Why don't you investigate it?"

Mycroft didn't want to say the truth of it. That he wanted to know where Sherlock was and what he was doing, so he was providing his next case. He formulated some excuses on the top of his head. "No, no, no. I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections so-," he paused at this point, offering a convincing 'knowing' smile. "Well, you don't need to know about that, do you? Besides, a case like this requires…legwork."

Sherlock was still choosing not to listen. He stared straight ahead, still cradling his Stradivarius. "How's Sarah, John? How was the lilo?"

"Sofa, Sherlock, it was the sofa." Mycroft corrected him in a slightly demeaning manner.

Sherlock afforded another quick glance at John. "Oh, yes, of course."

John face creased in puzzlement, "How..." it was a drawn out word, and then, "Oh, never mind."

Mycroft found himself thinking that John was getting used to his brother. He decided to bring the doctor into conversation, since Sherlock was being so cooperative. "Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became… pals." He enunciated the last word. "What's he to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

"I'm never bored." John answered readily.

"Good," Mycroft chuckled softly, "that's good isn't it?" He rose from his seat, using his umbrella to propel him upwards. Taking a few steps towards John, Mycroft handed him the files he had brought to the flat. "Andrew West. Known as 'Westie' to his friends. Civil servant. Found dead on the tracks at Battersea station this morning with his head smashed in."

John scanned the file, his face turning into an expression of focus. "Jumped in front of a train?" he ventured.

Poor fellow had it wrong. Mycroft's gut was telling him it wasn't suicide. He tried to be kind. "Seems the logical assumption…" he agreed.

"But?" John pressed him.

"But?"

John swallowed. "But you wouldn't be here if it was just an accident."

"Huh," Sherlock guffawed from the sofa.

Mycroft ignore him. At least John was showing interest. He hoped some of it would brushed off on his brother. "The MoD is working on a new missile defense system." His heart hammered a bit. It felt wrong to start explaining government secrets. Reminding himself it was needed Mycroft continued. "The Bruce-Partington Plan it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

"That wasn't very clever." John observed. Mycroft could feel Sherlock's smirk from behind him.

"It's not the only copy. But it is secret… and missing."

"Top secret?" John asked.

"Very." Mycroft didn't know how to stress it enough. "We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." He turned once again to his brother for his final plea. "You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you." He threatened.

"I'd like to see you try." Sherlock dared him.

"Think it over." Mycroft advised him, the tone of his voice rather ominous. "Goodbye John," He bid farewell to the man who he was sure was key to get his brother to do anything. "See you soon." It was a promise, not a goodbye. Sherlock began to scrape away at the violin knowing how annoying Mycroft always had found it.

No matter. Mycroft was gladly leaving the flat at that point. He really wasn't ready to be in the same room as Sherlock for an elongated amount of time. When he got to the Diogenes Club, he let himself relax. The visit could have been worse. Mycroft had purposefully not brought up the topic of Vyncentte. He hadn't heard a word from America, yet always wondered if Sherlock had news. But it was a delicate subject, one he did not want to dwell on. So he let it be. And lived on.

* * *

Sherlock was not cooperating. He seemed to ignore everything about the Bruce-Partington plans, and instead remained occupied with other trivial matters. Mycroft's calls remained unanswered. So were his texts, which he had had to resort to after a surprising unpleasant root canal surgery. Mycroft finally decided to text John and see how they were coming along. It ended with bringing John to the office.

Mycroft walked into his office fresh from one of his meetings. He eyes looked up from his paper report and noticed the doctor sitting and waiting for him.

"John."

John popped up from his seat at the word.

Mycroft crossed the room, still reading as he reached his desk. "How nice. I was hoping you wouldn't be long. How can I help you?" Closing the file, he noticed the doctor had not moved from his attentive stance. He motioned for John to sit again.

"Thank you," John lowered himself into the chair. He was wearing a suit, and Mycroft tried to hide his amusement.

John rubbed his hands together, "Um—well, I was wanting to… um, your brother sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans, the missile plans." John was really fumbling for words. Mycroft rearranged some papers on his desk.

Mycroft glanced over his shoulder at the man and gave him a small smile. "Did he?" That was cause for amusement.

"Yes." John's nervously smiled back. Mycroft leaned against the desk, studying the doctor.

Feeling the scrutiny, John tried to bolster his argument. "He's investigating now."

A sudden, sharp pain flamed up in Mycroft's jaw. Unconsciously, his hand flew up to the spot, rubbing away the pain.

"He's, er, investigating away." John added weakly, noticing the man's action.

Mycroft didn't believe any of it. Sherlock's energies were obviously being occupied elsewhere. And here was poor John trying to clean up after. A thin smile conveyed Mycroft's thoughts over the small distance between them. I know you're lying, it seemed to say.

John became flustered again. "Um—I just wondered what else you could tell me about the dead man." He pulled out a small notebook and a pen.

The pain in Mycroft's mouth was beginning to make him uncomfortable. "Uh," he fought past the pain, "twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross – er, MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Programme in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies ... last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening." He railed off all the facts he was so familiar with now.

"Right." John scribbled furiously on the page. "He was found at Battersea, yes? So he got on the train."

"No." Mycroft shot down John's feeble attempt of a deduction.

"What?"

"He had an Oyster card," he began to explain, but the pain shot up again. He clenched the place with his hand. Damned tooth. He realized John was frowning and staring at him. "But it hadn't been used." He forced out finishing his sentence.

"Must have bought a ticket." John argued.

Mycroft lowered his hand, "There was no ticket on the body."

John's face slackened in defeat. "Then…"

"Then how did he end up with a bashed- in brain on the tracks of Battersea?" Mycroft cut him off impatiently. The pain in his mouth was becoming intolerable. "That is the question—the one was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How's he getting on?" he wanted John to admit that his brother wasn't actually working on the case.

"He—he's fine, yes." John stammered. "Oh and—and it is going…very well. It's, um…you know. He's completely focused on it." He smile once again. It didn't convince Mycroft, yet he let the doctor leave.

Collapsing into the desk chair, Mycroft rubbed his jaw again. Perhaps he was a little too hasty with the surgery. So much was going on. Could he really afford it at that moment? Besides, John's stare had unnerved him. He didn't want to seem 'weak' from a little pain from dental work. Yet how did John know it was pain that was the reason he was reaching to his mouth.

He reflected on the conversation. Sherlock was really not going to assist him. Not willingly. Not even being ordered to do so. He sighed. Maybe he would have to investigate himself. Send some men out and gather the information he needed to complete the unfinished puzzle in his mind.

Yet, Sherlock had sent John. Or at least John had deemed it necessary to make it seem like Sherlock was making progress. Mycroft had a feeling John was investigating into it. He commended the man's efforts, but still… John was not going to solve this. If Mycroft couldn't right here in his chair… John couldn't do it on the field.

Aimlessly, his eyes fell on the calendar set up on his desk. The mental calculation was automatic now. Three months. Five weeks. And a day. The pain in his mouth blurred his vision. Maybe it was the pain. He hoped it was the pain.

Pulling a file closer to himself, Mycroft went back to work. Back to figures and plans and security measures. Back to things that made sense and things that he could predict and plan. To things that were in his control.

His mind wandered to the things that he wished were in his control. And he pushed it away.

He hoped John would surprise him and do well.


	26. What's in a Name?

_Hello all, _

_ So very sorry for all the waiting that has to go on before I publish another chapter. Here's the next one. Just a little bit about Vynce's time in Louisiana. Also some things about the past of his family get revealed here. Thanks for all you support, and please remember to review if you liked it :)_

_Best Wishes_

_V. Jenkins_

The workers ended up calling him 'Shakespeare'. It was Pete who had started it all really. One glance at the written name had unnerved him enough that he simply went off of the fact that Vynce was British and called him the first thing that came to his mind. So from that day forward, his second name was 'Shakespeare'.

Most everyone called him by it, except Darren and sometimes Skipper.

He was Vyncentte to Darren and most of the time just 'Violet's boy'. Vyncentte expected that, but he wondered about why Skip balanced on the edge of his real name and his nick name.

"Because I know what it's like to just be identified by just a nickname." Skipper had answered when Vynce had finally asked him. They were taking a break on one of the fishing boats, dangling their legs off the side.

"Oh." Vynce hadn't really thought about it before. Skipper had always been well… 'Skipper'.

"You didn't think my parents had named me 'Skipper', did you?" His friend teased.

"Well, no." Vynce laughed. It was a ridiculous notion really. But then again… Vynce didn't really ever think about parents. His own or others. "What's your real name then?"

"Kyle." Skip answered. Vynce studied the young man's face. He did look like a 'Kyle' and he immediately filed away the name into his mind.

"Why doesn't anyone call you Kyle?" Vynce asked. The sun beamed down nice and warm on the wooden deck and the waves of the gulf rocked the small craft.

"Much the same story I guess." His friend explained. "No one could really remember my name and Tony came up with 'Skipper' so… it just kind of happened."

"You don't like it?"

"Not that… it's just. You sometimes forget your real name when it's not used, and then there's a little bit of an identity- crisis. I have to remind myself some days of who I really am."

Vynce reflected about it. What would it be like to forget his own name? He would no longer have to be 'Vyncentte Holmes'. He'd just be some guy called 'Shakespeare' down here in New Orleans working at a fishery. It was tempting… yet frightening at the same time. To lose 'Vyncentte' almost seemed like he'd lose the past fifteen years of his life as well. He didn't know if that's what he wanted or not.

"Would you rather be called Kyle?" he finally asked.

"Nah, Skipper's fine. I know who I am. That's good enough for me." Skip answered. "I just throw in a 'Vyncentte' once in the while because I'm not sure you'll remember on your own."

"What do you mean?"

"You never talk about England, Vynce." Skipper prompted him. "You live in the present only, as if you're afraid to talk about the past. I don't know who you are besides what you've done here."

"Why should it matter?" Vyncentte heart hammered. The discussion was getting deep. "I'm here, you know the type of person I am."

"And you're a good person." Skipper complimented him. "I just think you don't really know who you are yet. That takes reflecting on the past some, no matter how painful that is."

"What are you majoring in again at uni?" Vynce asked sarcastically.

Skipper laughed. "Business management."

"You sure it's not philosophy?"

* * *

Working on the boats was hard some days. Vynce was sore going back to the Big House every evening. He spent the days out in the hot sun pulling up heavy lines and cages with the others. Often he was put on a four person vessel, usually with Skipper and most of the time Rose. The fourth person was chosen from the other members of the crew that circled in and out regularly.

They always ate the evening meal out on the front lawn together as a crew. Darren would be waiting on the front veranda to see them return. Pete and Tony the co-captains of the team would meet briefly with him and give a summary of the day. Everyone else could get their meal and relax. Most times they all stayed outside until the sun went down. Then members of the crew started to meander to the boarding houses for their own time before bed. Skipper stayed until Vynce was ready to go into the Big House for the night. Rose stuck around too.

Some nights Vynce ventured in earlier than he usually did. Darren was usually always in the house. The two of them lived peacefully together, no arguments or complaints. They stayed out of each other's way whenever it was needed and enjoyed each other's company when it was not. Vynce was free to roam any place in the house and nothing was off limits. He spent the time he had on his own exploring the rooms of the house.

It wasn't a big house, despite the name, and he could easily make the rounds in a couple of minutes. But each room held a store of treasures. The living room, that's what they called it in the States, was homey. Big pieces of broken-in, comfortable furniture flanked the room. In the corner, stood Darren's guitar. It was a coincidence that Vynce and he shared interest in the same instrument. Vynce always fought the urge to pick up the object as he walked by it. The greatest piece of the room was a fireplace built into the wall and surrounded by a cobbled wall. Its wooden mantelpiece jutted out above the grate. But the greatest thing was the objects that laid on that wood surface.

One was a clock. A silver gilded box with beautiful metal wrought hands and roman numerals around the face. Another thing were two small sepia photo, creased and crinkled with age. One was a young man, posed in front of an army bi-plane. He was in uniform. Clean, cut, and crisp. Vynce figured it was probably a picture of Darren, due to its age and the fact that Darren didn't have any sons.

The second photo was just as interesting. It depicted a young girl sitting at the base of a tree truck in a simple plaid dress. Her hair was in braids and framed her narrow face. Next to it was a card, less yellowed and obviously taken care of. When he was alone in the room, Vynce dared to pick it up and examine it. He realized there was an inscription in the interior.

**_ Dearest 'Papa',_**

**_ I very much miss your presence here in England. Mama says it won't be long before we can come over and be with you again. Is it true you have found a house? Mama says you also have started a new business in hopes of creating a foundation for your new life. I hope it goes well. We think it will be summertime when we can cross over. Please say you'll be ready for us. I can't wait to see you again. Please take care of yourself. Neither Mama nor I are there to help remind you. But soon we shall be._**

**_ All my love,_**

**_ Violet_**

His body had frozen. Here in his hands was something his mother had touched. Concrete evidence of her existence. Sometimes he had thought that his parents had been just figments of imagination. Something in his past that was imprinted on his memory but nothing he could really remember. People just had told him they had existed. He remembered one or two sparse details, but he couldn't remember their faces. Couldn't remember how they smelt or how they smiled. He knew of no mannerisms that would remind him of them.

But this card. This letter. _She _had written. Her very hand touched this. Something formed in the pit of Vyncentte's stomach. He refused to move, and instead read it again. And then again. Letting the words sink into his memory, and her script become familiar with him. This is how Darren had found him.

Darren chose not to remark on the fact his great-nephew was holding onto one of his most treasured possessions. Instead he said, "Skipper came by looking for you."

"What did you tell him?" Vynce's eyes never left what was in his hands.

"Told him you were off doing your own thing. Didn't know you were actually here."

"Well, I was." Vynce stated. A brief silence ensued.

"Well, I'll let you alone, then." Darren spoke. He turned to leave but Vyncentte stopped him.

"Wait."

"What do you need?"

"My—mum…she wrote this." Vynce breathed, gesturing to the card.

"Yes." Darren looked sorrowfully at the folded piece of cardstock. "Violet sent that to me a few months after I came over here."

Vynce read the opening again. "She's called you 'Papa'."

"Something she decided to do on her own." Darren answered quietly. "Her name for me. I was always around, and she never really knew her real father." He stepped closer to the mantel and picked up the photo of the little girl Vyncentte had examined earlier. He handed it to Vynce. And the next thing Darren did was sit down and do the thing he did best. He sat and told Vyncentte a story.

"That's your mother in the back yard of the old house they had owned in England before they had come over to stay with me. Startling, isn't it. I bet you never saw something of her when she was that age. She was a beautiful little angel. She and her mother did end up moving here after the first spring was over. I let them stay here as long as they wanted to. Minerva, her mother, your grandmother, ended up purchasing one of the houses down the way. Violet floated between there and here. The room you are in now was where she slept.

"That was way back, when I used to work out on the water with the men I kept as crew. Violet, she'd come with me some days. She liked the boats and the view of the water, she didn't mind the fish or the ropes or the men around her. Violet just liked the breeze and being on board.

"Her mother didn't like it much. Especially when we realized Violet was no longer a child, but a young woman. My men realized it. They considered it a lucky day to be posted on the same ship as me, for there was the possibility that Violet would show up and come along for the day. But my men also respected me. No advances were made, and unwanted attention towards Violet was discouraged by their fellow workers.

"I didn't have to worry about someone taking my Violet away from me. Not until the day a young British fellow came down to New Orleans to prospect a business deal not too far away from here. He walked by my house often, and he noticed Violet was often around. One day he got the courage to stop by and introduce himself. Mathias Holmes. I didn't really like the look of him. He was a handsome man. All the local girls swooned for him, and if I heard correctly he sometimes took advantage of it. But that wasn't enough to satisfy him. Mathias became interested in the one girl who had not seemed interested in him. Violet.

"Mathias stayed for longer than I thought he'd needed to. It became a regular sight to see him drive up to the docks in the early mornings. He dawdled longer on the days Violet had come to join us and tried talking to her. He kept it up for months; it seemed that nothing she could say would dampen his spirits.

"Looking back, I realized when the tides started changing. There were sometimes that Violet would come to the docks and Mathias would be there and suddenly she would decide to stay back and would wave me off as our boats departed. Then she took to staying around the house. Violet's appearance changed too. She began to wear dresses more than the slacks and shirts she would wear out on the gulf. She fixed her hair pretty too.

"Minerva was ecstatic to stay the least. Her daughter was finally becoming who she had wanted her to be for years now. But I was more wary. I didn't like what I was seeing. I even asked Mathias to stop coming to my house. It didn't matter. He'd show up at Minerva's place instead, and I couldn't get Minerva to stop allowing him in. She was happy to find a 'well-bred English gentleman' that seemed interested in her daughter. When Mathias and Violet announced the engagement, Minerva threw a huge party and invited the town.

"Afterwards, Mathias whisked Violet off to England for the wedding. Minerva followed, selling her house and leaving immediately to have her things shipped out after her. Occasionally I'd receive a correspondence from my Violet. And it seemed that the first few years were happy ones. During that time she gave birth to her first son. Your brother Mycroft. And she sent me photos and more letters. But after a while her letters seemed to take a turn. She was sad and lonely. She missed the gulf. Wanted to come out and visit, but Mathias could never get off of work. She began to write less frequently. Christmas. A trip to the Alps. Second son. New house in Kensington. Mathias' family was rich and he got it into his mind he wanted a bigger place. Brought the damn mansion you live in."

Darren sighed and scratched his beard. "Her last letter was about you."

"Me?" Vynce had taken a seat on the floor, leaning his back against the couch.

"Yes, you." Darren smiled. "She wanted to tell me the news. I didn't even know she was pregnant again. But there you were in her letter. She was so excited to have you, said you were her new start. That she was going to start living differently and solve some of the problems that had been happening over the years. Said she was finally going to have a serious talk with Mathias about the future."

"What about?" Vynce interrupted. He was confused.

"I hadn't the slightest idea." Darren confessed. "Her previous letter had been a year and a half before that. Violet didn't say any specifics, just said that things were going to change and rambled on about Mathias and how he would stay home now."

Vynce put two and two together. His father was probably having the affair around that time.

"I never heard from her again." Darren continued. "That was my last letter from her. My own letters went unanswered. The news of her death came probably about five years after. And there was a lot I regretted not doing when I heard about it. I had always said I would get over to England to visit. I wanted to see 'her boys' and make sure she was doing alright. But I could never get away from the business you see? I just had to stay."

A few seconds of sad silence ticked by.

"I stopped going out on the boats after that." Darren said. "I turned it over to other men to do. I became busier with the books instead of the ropes. My time opened up then, and I realized there were more important things in life instead of how many fish were caught in a day. That's when I started with the genealogy.

"I'd always toyed with the idea of contacting you and your brothers. I had heard Mathias had died around the same time as Violet. Minerva had passed years before. I knew there was nothing left for you boys besides yourselves. But there was always something there that had held me back. The day I received Sherlock's letter was the day I had decided it was alright to let you boys into my life. I had been sought out. Not the other way around. And I knew it was okay to request your presence. I didn't have to think twice about inviting you to New Orleans. I remembered how happy your mother was at your arrival. And my reply was in the mail the next day. Now you're here, and sometimes it seems like the old days again. Like I've got Violet upstairs, just waiting to start the day off."

"But it's just me." Vynce gave words the unspoken part of Darren's narrative. "It's not Violet coming down the stairs, it's me."

Darren looked at him. "And I've realized I really don't mind that part after all. I'm always going to love Violet, but you're 'Violet's boy' to me. I love you just as much."

Vynce realized he had never before in his life had someone tell him that he was loved. It felt strange, yet pleasing to hear.

"Can I ask you something?" Vynce made a decision, for once using his heart instead of his mind.

"Anything."

"Well… two things really." Vynce started uncomfortably. "One is… well… will you come down to the docks tomorrow instead of stay in the house?" he wanted Darren to come out and feel the experience of being on a boat again. He wanted the man with him, working side by side for the day.

Darren thought about the request, "I'm an old man now Vyncentte."

"Not that old." Vynce protested. "You could still make it. You wouldn't have to do any work if you didn't want to. Just… be out there."

"I suppose I could try." Darren fingered the pipe he had lit in the middle of his story. "What was the second thing?"

This was the question Vynce was feeling more uncomfortable about… but it was odd to back out now. Darren knew he had another question. "I was just wondering…you know, instead of calling you 'Darren' or 'Uncle'…could I call you… 'Grandfather'?"

Darren smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling around his watery blue irises. It was a few seconds before he could say anything, but in the end he managed to say, "I'd like that very much."


End file.
